


To Trust a Clever Man

by ELISE_ELEVEN



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Attempted, Background Relationships, Banter, F/M, Happy Ending, Jaime is Lord of Casterly Rock, Lyanna aged-up, Minor Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Ned Stark Lives, No Cersei/Jaime Incest, Non-Graphic Smut, POV Sansa Stark, POV Tyrion Lannister, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Assault, Robert Baratheon Lives, Romance, Romantic Tension, Sansa aged-up, Slow Burn, Survival, Trust Issues, Tywin Lannister dead, alternate version of events
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-05-31 01:15:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19415440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ELISE_ELEVEN/pseuds/ELISE_ELEVEN
Summary: Tyrion often wonders what Tywin would have thought of his sons if he’d lived past Tyrion’s fourth name day; the Lannister Brothers, the Half-man and the Lord of House Lannister. The city below Casterly Rock is like the shining pebbles on a long stretch of beach, the white and brown buildings and streets painted golden in the wake of the dying sun. Jaime studies his brother and they lean on the windowsill together."I’ve been in contact with Lord Stark for some time now. I have not yet proposed that we become allies, but I believe it can work, that he will agree… if certain arrangements can be made.” Jaime hesitates. “That’s where I need you.”Tyrion narrows his eyes. A strange, sinking sensation has begun in the pit of his stomach and grows stronger with each word out of his brother's mouth. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”





	1. The Lord of Casterly Rock

It’s the smell he likes best. Anyone who has spent much time in a library knows it. Dry, and warm, and earthy. The smell of old books. And the great library of Casterly Rock is full of old books, shelves upon shelves of them, so that one could pick one up the on the day he was born and still not have finished on the day he died. And no one has spent more time in this library than Tyrion Lannister.

The Imp, the Half-man, the god of tits and wine; the youngest son of the infamous Tywin Lannister is known for a great number of deprived and vulgar things, but the thing he likes best in the world is quite simple: words. 

And the book he’s sought out on this particularly hot evening is “The Tales of the Great One-Eyed Widow in the Vale”. Tyrion has already spent many hours pouring over its ancient, delicate pages, taking in, with fascination, the odd and sometimes disturbing stories. This particular tome is said to contain prophecies, hidden in plain sight, that foretell the ending of all things known to mankind, and, if deciphered correctly, how to prevent it. So far, no one, not even the King’s Maesters, have been able to make sense of it. Mostly, the book is just the ramblings of an old mad woman with a god complex, and some very entertaining stories. 

And Lord Tyrion can never resist a good story. 

He’d studied many books like this one, during his youth. Books that supposedly contained the secrets of the universe, or at the very least, some hidden and secret wisdom. The Maesters had insisted he read, and memorize, and copy volume after volume of sacred texts and history accounts, but Tyrion had never found the secret behind the meaning to all life. Instead, he’d found a love for the story, the adventure, the romance; he’d found a treasure better than any prophecy: the understanding and mastering of words. 

“And who have you found to keep you company on this fine evening, Little Brother?”

Where he sits in a burgundy, plush armchair beside the north window of the tower that looks out over the city and the setting sun, Tyrion startles and shakes himself the pages he’d been in engrossed in, and glances over towards the archway and at the man who has just entered.

Tall and broad, with long golden hair and a cleanshaven face, Lord Jaime of the House Lannister is a striking figure, like the hero of so many of Tyrion’s books, the type of man young girls dream of sweeping them up into his arms and carrying them away to his castle. Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. Lord of House Lannister. The type of man their Father would have been proud of. 

Tyrion often wonders what he would have thought of his three children if he’d lived past Tyrion’s fourth name day. Tyrion can hardly remember the man, though that doesn’t diminish his presence in their lives. People who knew him, say Jaime is just like him; but Jaime always says Tyrion is more like Father than any of them. At first, Tyrion had dismissed this, but now he’s come to understand his Father the older he’s gotten, the more of stories he’s heard and the more he comes along little notes and scraps of paper in Tywin’s thin fine scratch around the castle. 

“Oh, only the lovely and distinguished Lady Mortimire, the witch of the Vale.” Tyrion grins up at his brother, holding up the tome with its weathered and beaten cover. 

Jaime just shakes his head good-naturedly. “Do I even want to know?”

“It’s actually a very interesting set of tales. I’m just getting to the part where thinks her husband is having an affair with her dead lover-.”

“Her dead lover?”

Tyrion grin and nods. “Her dead lover. The one who she killed because she thought he was cheating on her, and who is now feeding her information about the afterlife so she can foretell the destruction of all mankind; and who she thinks is giving her husband better information. You know, that one.” 

“Ah, yes. Who else could it be?”

“Anyway”, Tyrion reopens the book and taps on a drawing of a burning brazier and some handwritten instructions. “So, naturally, she slices off the skin of his palms with a bone dagger and burns them with her potions to learn the truth of his fate. There’s some quite intriguing and graphic descriptions…” His eyelids twitches and he blinks several times. “…which I won’t get into. But it so happens, she decided to cut off his skin while she was fucking him, and when she got up to put it in her brazier, he still hadn’t finished. He was so mad with the lust, that he had to finish himself off with bloody hands and no palms.” 

“Eewwhhh.” Jaime makes a face and gives his body a little shake. “I don’t know why you feel the need to tell me these things.” 

“True story.” Tyrion raps his knuckles on the outside cover of the book. 

Scratching his scalp, Jaime rolls his eyes. “Oh, I have no doubt. But that doesn’t mean I want to hear about it.” 

“You know, it wouldn’t you to pick up a book once in a while.” Tyrion says, climbing down from the chair and setting the old book on the writing desk beside the window. “You’re the Lord of Casterly Rock. The very least you could do is try to sound educated.” 

“I’ll leave that to you. You read enough for the both of us.” Jaime watches his little brother as he replaces the book with only his second favorite of all things in the entire world: a rather large glass of wine. He narrows his eyes as Tyrion downs a long draft. “You know, that reminds me. I was just informed that several large casks of wine were delivered in the cellars yesterday, and the Lord of the castle was billed.” 

Tyrion suddenly begins to take great interest in some papers on the desk. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Not meeting his eyes, Tyrion shakes his head. “No. Not a thing.”

Jaime raises an eyebrow and studies his brother. “And what’s that you’re drinking now? I didn’t know we had any Dornish wine in the castle.” 

“Hmmm”, Tyrion stares into his goblet. “Must been an old cask hidden behind all the new ones.” 

“Tyrion…” 

“Well, I can’t help it if your taste in wine isn’t as good as mine.” Tyrion goes to take another sip, but Jaime strides over and swipes the glass from his hands. 

“You drink too much.” He takes a sniff and then helps himself to the wine, while Tyrion glares. “It’s going to kill you one of these days. You’d quit now before you get a reputation as the most drunken man in all Westeros.”

Tyrion doesn’t bother to look up. He’s too busy licking at the few drops between his fingers that spilled when his dink was stolen. “Oh no”, he guffaws, “Not my pristine reputation.”

“You ought to cut back while you’re young- or young-ish- before you become as fat as the King.” 

“Well what else am I supposed to do? The last whore I brought here; you threw her out.”

Jaime grins and nods. “With quite a sizable tip. And an even bigger one to never come back.” 

“Exactly.” Throwing up his hands in exasperation, Tyrion paces to the window and then back again. He puts his hands on his hips and stands before his brother. “Whores, wine; that’s what I do. I’m the Imp for gods’ sake. What else am I supposed to devote all my time and money to?” 

“How about a wife and family?”

“Uh.” Tyrion groans. Shaking his head, she turns away and then begins to frantically search for more wine. Surely, he’d left a cup in here earlier. “No, no. I’m not like you Jaime. There’s a reason I’m not already married.” 

“You’re afraid?” Jaime playfully nudges his brother, but Tyrion only scowls.

“No. Because none of them can stand the sight of me.”

“Oh please.” Jaime nudges him again. “I’ve seen they look at you, the way they whisper and giggle at the feasts and celebrations.” 

“The only reason they’re paying me any attention is that they’re all wondering if my cock is as big as is the rumors say. They don’t actually have any interest in marrying the Imp." 

“Oh, come on, Tyrion. You give yourself too little credit.” He suddenly turns away from the window’s view and towards the small man. “Seriously. You’ve always talked as if it was going to happen eventually. I know you want a wife and family, weather you want to admit it or not. And you’re not getting any younger. Now may be the time.” 

The city below stretches like the shining pebbles on a long stretch of beach, the white and brown buildings and streets painted golden in the wake of the dying sun. It’s peaceful and quiet, not like the crowded, noisy chaos of King’s Landing, with all the people and the soldiers, and the smells. Tyrion continues to stare out at it all, squinting, for the sun is directly in his eyes. He sighs. “No. Perhaps there will never a right time.” 

Jaime studies his brother and they lean on the windowsill together; the smile lines at the corners of his eyes, the long, slightly curled hair hanging around his ears, the hard set of his jaw. He’s a Lannister, through and through, just like himself and Cersei. But there’s always been something different about him, a weight on his shoulders, the thick crease between his brows. It makes Jaime worry. He knows part of the reason is everything he’s had to experience for being a dwarf, and also the fact that they grew up without any parents; but there’s something else too. It worries him.

“I came up here for a reason, Tyrion. And it’s not to hear disturbing stories about a man’s palms getting cut off… I have a rather large favor to ask you.” 

Oh, this should be good. Tyrion turns towards his older brother, leaning an elbow against the desk. “Oh?”

“As you know, Westeros is not exactly in a stable position right now.”

“Really”, Tyrion quips. “What gave you that impression? The fact that House Baratheon is at civil war with itself, and that the King’s done nothing about it? Or is it that the Crown owes the Iron Bank three times more than it currently has at the moment? Or perhaps, it’s the feud going on between the Crown and the Tyrells, the House that supplies all the crops, because Cersei is still angry that Loris refused to marry Myrcella, and left to go join Renly’s army? 

“You know, you should have seen it. Last week when Margaery and I went to visit, it was a bloodbath. Cersei and Olenna were at each other’s throats the entire time.” Jaime runs his fingers through his hair and shakes his head. 

“That’s precisely why I didn’t go.”

“Margaery even tried to speak to Cersei.” Jamie continues. “I told that wasn’t a good idea, but she insisted. It did not go well.” He shoots his brother a side glance and smirks. “She called her sister.”

“Oh! That’ll do it.” Tyrion shudders. “Now I almost wish I had been there to see it. At least it would have been entertaining. And the wine is much better in the capitol.” 

Jaime casts him the side eye. “And whores?”

Sighing, Tyrion nods. “And whores.” He repeats wistfully. 

“But if you think Cersei is angry now, just wait until she hears that Robert is considering giving Myrcella to the young Dornish Prince.”

“Is he really?” Tyrion turns fully towards Jaime and gapes in surprise. “Cersei will murder him in his sleep.”

Jaime nods. They both know their sister. “How do you think she’ll do it?”

“Poison probably.” Tyrion eyes his half-finished drink in Jaime’s hand. “That, or maybe the King will have an unfortunate hunting accident one of these days.” 

In reply, Jaime makes an amused noise in the back of his throat. Then he glances back at his brother, searching his face. “Which brings me to the favor. With the uncertain future of the Seven Kingdoms, I’ve begun to make plans to ensure our safety. If there’s going to be a war of any kind, I want to make sure we are on the winning side. Right now, our only real allies are the Tyrells, through marriage, and the Crown, through marriage. They’re some of the strongest allies but, even they don’t have a solid, unbreakable relationship with each other. And we in an alliance with one third of the Baratheons, who are at war right now. Besides them, we have no real allies.”

The lights are beginning to flicker on in the city below. The sun gone now, but the sky is still stained with a bit of its color, a deep crimson and soft pink. Tyrion takes a candle from the desk, and lights it, suddenly casting his brother’s face in warm light. “So? We’re allies with the crown; the crown rules everything, allied with everyone. If there was a war, more than just our three houses would be on our side.”

“I know…” Jaime speaks carefully, starring down and fiddling with the handle of his sword. “But we don’t really have an allies outside of the Crown, outside of the south. And, if things go wrong, that’s something we may need.”

Tyrion lifts an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side. Intriguing. He’s never heard his brother talk about anything like this. What is he getting at?

Jaime continues, not looking at the small man beside him. “I’ve reached out, tentatively, to a few Houses to see where they stand. A few of those Houses are even as far North as Winterfell. I’ve been in contact with Lord Stark. He and I have similar thoughts about the state of the realm at this time and I feel that he is a good, trustworthy man. I have not, yet proposed that we become allies, but I believe it can work, that he will agree… if certain arrangements can be made.” Jaime  
hesitates. “That’s where I need you.”

Tyrion narrows his eyes at Lord Lannister. A strange, sinking sensation has begun in the pit of his stomach and grows stronger with each passing moment. “I’m not going to like this, am I?” 

He can already see it in his brother’s face. Jaime scratches his chin and shakes his head sheepishly. “No. You’re really not going to like this…” He bites his lip then takes a deep breath. Might as well just get it out. 

“Lord Stark has five children, and one bastard. I need you to marry his eldest daughter.” 

Complete silence. Jaime holds his breath and waits, then glances over at Tyrion, who is starring back out the window, expression unreadable.

“Tyrion…”

“No.”

“Oh, Tyrion. 

“No. No, no, no.” Shaking his head and ringing his hands, Tyrion pushes away from the sill and begins to pace the room. “I won't do it.”

“Tyrion, I need you to.”

“I’m sorry, but no. You know I would do almost anything to protect this family, but not this. I’m not going to just marry some stranger.” 

“Tyrion, listen to me!” Jaime follows the other man into the room, trying to get in front of him, to catch his gaze. “You’re a Lannister. As a member of this family, you are expected to do your duty to secure our alliance. I know you don’t want to, but you’ll do fine. And maybe you’ll even like her.” 

“No. No way.” Panic surges in his mind, flaring with terror to turn his veins to fire. He balls his hands into fists. “I can’t do it!” He whirls on Jaime. “And you really think Lord Stark will agree to this? Where would we live anyway?”

“Here, naturally.”

“So, you think this young woman is going to want to leave her family, come all the way across the land to live in a strange place, with strangers, for the rest of her life?” His voice is too fast and shrill. 

“No young woman wants to; but they do it out of duty of and for the good of their house.” Tyrion tries to turn away again, to continue pacing, but Jaime catches hold of his shoulders, holding him in place. “You think Cersei wanted to marry Robert?” Tyrion swallows, but doesn’t look up. “You think Myrcella will want to go all the way to Dorne? Do you think Margaery wanted to leave High Garden and marry me? That I wanted her at first?” 

Tyrion finally meets the other man’s eyes. Its clear in his eyes; he’s already half resigned. 

Kneeling down, so that their faces are level, Jaime searches his little brother’s face. “I know this is a lot of ask, but I have no one else. Cersei is married. I’m married. Joffrey’s married, and Myrcella and Tommen are already promised. We don’t have any children yet, and I wish that we did. But its not from lack of trying.” 

Tyrion swallows. He knows what a sensitive subject this is for Jaime. He and Margaery have been married several years now, and still no children. A source of contention in their relationship, he and Margaery don’t like to talk about it. It weighs heavily on his mind, the fact that he may never produce an heir, may never be a father. Tyrion squeezes his brother’s arm. 

“You’re all I have, Tyrion. There’s no one else.” 

With a long, deep sigh, Tyrion nods. Jaime is right, this is his duty. Its time he’s made a sacrifice for the family. “What do you need me to do?”

The relief on his face is instant and overwhelming. Jaime finally smiles. “Thank you.” Using Tyrion’s shoulders as an anchor, he climbs to his feet. “Well first, I need you to go to Winterfell to the make the proposal. And then after that, just marry Lady Stark and give me lots of Lannister nieces and nephews.”

Tyrion rubs his scalp and forehead, sighing. It is just his imagination, or is he getting headache? This is insanity, he thinks. I cannot have actually agreed to this. “You’re right. I regret it already.” 

Jaime claps his brother on the shoulder. “I’m going to make an honest man out of you yet. You wait and see.” He grins at Tyrion’s expression. “And I promise, when you get back, you shall have all the Dornish wine you can handle.” 

Tyrion quickly glances up, intrigued. He cocks his head in disbelief, and Jaime grins. He takes the goblet he’d stolen from him earlier and hold it out. 

“Is that a promise, because I can handle a lot of wine”, Tyrion asks, eyeing the glass suspiciously. 

“It’s a promise.”


	2. The Lord of Winterfell

Winterfell. Big and black against the winter landscape, stands the house of the Starks, the stronghold of the North. Like a great, hulking beast, crouching low in the cold, the castle marks the place between endless snow and pale sky of the same color. If not for the guardian castle, one could not tell where one began and the other ended. He could just keep going, forever and ever, until he walked off the edge of the world; or else; found a passageway into the clouds. 

It truly is a sight. Tyrion has never been, nevertheless imagined, a place so bitterly cold and barren, and yet so beautiful. The snow had begun to flurry twenty minutes ago, but now is falling in earnest, as if it’s determined to bury them before they can reach the safety of the walls and escape its clutches. True to its nature, the winter really is like a wolf, chasing its prey with a wide-open mouth; jaws of ice and jaws of bone. 

Its completely silent. If one didn’t know better, he might think this is an abandoned stronghold; if not for the two large banners handing beside the massive gate, and the armed, snow-covered guards standing watch atop the walls. They watch intently, only their heads moving to track the parties’ slow approach. It makes Tyrion nervous, the guards with their low sliver helms and large bushy beards, and this inconceivable quiet. As he and his company, of which there are thirteen armed soldiers, arrive, as a lone soldier pushes open the gate and then closes it behind him. 

“Open the gate, won’t you ser. Be a good fellow.” Tyrion stops his horse before the man and lifts his arm in greeting. The soldier only stares back at him.   
“Did you hear the Lord?” The captain of his guard pulls his horse up beside Tyrion’s. “Open the gate. A storm is brewing, and my Lord requires shelter immediately.” 

The guard finally speaks. “Who are you? And what business do you Southernmen have in Winterfell?”

The captain is about to draw his sword, but Tyrion shoots him a look. I would perhaps not send a very good impression to Lord Stark, killing one of his men before he’s inside the gates. He studies the young man; his hardened face, his thick black beard. “Not to worry. I am Tyrion Lannister, sent by my brother Jaime Lannister on a diplomatic mission of good will between Houses Stark and Lannister. I am to be a personal guest of Lord Stark. If you’ll go and speak to him, you’ll find he is expecting me.” 

The man narrows his eyes. He seems almost…confused? As if they aren’t both speaking in the King’s tongue. Tyrion sighs. What is it with these Northern folk? “Run along then. Its bloody cold out here and I haven’t had a good drink in three days.” He smiles encouragingly, and eventually, the man turns and reenters the gate. 

They wait, snow gathering on Tyrion’s cloak, his unruly hair, and on the tips of his eyelashes. He glances all around him, at the small clump of forest to the east and the miles of frozen nothing. Gods, he thinks, I bloody hate the North. 

Finally, the guard returns, still giving Tyrion quite an impressive glare, saying, “Follow me”. 

All of a sudden, the noise barrier is broken. The muddy courtyard is full of people running about, carrying firewood or grooming the horses chained to the outer wall. As his company passes, they turn to stare; because they’re Southerners, because they carry the Lion sigil, and, of course, because of him. ‘What’, he wants to say, ‘Never seen a dwarf before?’

They leave behind three men to look after the horses, while Tyrion and the rest of his entourage make their way inside the castle. Long hallways of dark stone. Dimly lit corridors. Towers with narrow, spiraling staircases. Winterfell is truly a fortress to be envied. Nothing to be compared with the Red Keep, or even Casterly Rock, but a great feat of craftsmanship, nonetheless. 

The soldier guides them to the set of double doors that lead into the great hall. There are more guards posted outside, on either side of the doorway, and Tyrion’s men size one another up. 

Tyrion is first through the doorway, a few moments before his men. The long hall, lit only by the pale winter light coming through the windows and the candles hanging on the walls, is empty; save tables stretching horizontally along either side, one long, high table at the front, before the hearth, and a woman. Her back is to him. She stands beside the fire, straight-backed, and strong-shouldered. Her hair is what he notices first; red, strait and long and shining, like hair of a fox or the last embers of a fire. 

She hears his step behind her and turns to glance over one shoulder. Her eyes narrow, taking him in. Tyrion knows the look well. It’s the same look he gets from every new nobleman his brother introduces him to, the look he gets when. She’s trying to decide what she thinks of him. 

This is the moment where he should try to make a good impression, should smile, but he doesn’t. He just stares back. 

Just then, his men arrive and fall into formation behind him. And at the same moment, a man with curly brown hair and thick wolf pelt on his shoulders, marches through the side entrance, flanked my several guards and a Maester. 

Tyrion’s gaze is still fixed on the Lady, waiting for her reaction, but she turns away before she has a chance to make up her mind. Both the man and the red-haired woman take seats at the head table. Lord and Lady Stark. They’re much younger than he’d envisioned. 

The Lord places his hands on the table and fixes Tyrion with an icy blue stare. He hadn’t exactly expected a welcoming party, but this seems far from friendly. Taking his silence as an ascent, Tyrion crosses the long hall to stand before them. 

“My Lord, My Lady, it is a great honor to be welcomed so graciously into your home.” He bows slightly. “My Lord is most kind to have me as a guest and grant me shelter from the cold. My brother, Jaime, Lord of House Lannister sends his regards and good will, and hopes good terms can be set between our Houses.”

Lord Stark is frowning slightly, and Lady Stark has her eyes narrowed. They both stare at Tyrion, but don’t give any response. Alright. Best to just push on. 

“Lord Stark”, Tyrion smiles warmly, “My brother has told me nothing but good things about you. He says you are an honorable man, and I’m sure he’s correct. Its so nice to meet you after all these years of listening to Robert tell tales of your adventures.” He laughs, heartily, but Ned Stark only frowns and glances at his wife. They both look a bit confused. 

Tyrion clears his throat. “And you My Lady. I heard tales of your beauty and grace from all across the Seven Kingdoms, but they have not nearly done you justice.” Not exactly true- all he’s heard about Catelyn Stark is that she’s Tully and has red hair- but this sort of thing always works with the Noble ladies of the other Houses. Best to get in good with the wives as well as the husbands. They may be a bit disgusted by him, but none of them can resist his elaborate flattery and witty charm. “I’ve been all across the continent in the past weeks, but I have not yet seen anything as breathtaking as you.”

Lady Stark furrows her brow, opening her mouth as if to say speak, but closes it again. Tyrion is starting to feel very uncomfortable. So far, neither of them has said a word. Maybe this was a trap, a scam to take the second Lannister son prisoner and hold him for ransom. But Jaime said… 

Taking a deep breath, Lord Stark leans forward in his chair, folding his hands before him. “Sorry, but who are you?”

Tyrion swallows, eyes darting between the two of them. “Uh…” He struggles for understanding. What is going on? “I am Tyrion of the House Lannister, sent here by my brother on a diplomatic visit to bring good will between our families—and you aren’t Ned Stark, are you?”

The young man finally cracks a half smile. He shakes his head. “No. I’m afraid not. I’m his eldest son, Rob Stark.” 

“I see…” Tyrion chuckles. “Very nice to meet you, of course. But if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’ve come to see your father. May I speak with him?” 

“No.” Tyrion is taken aback, but Rob Stark continues. “You can’t speak with him because he isn’t here. You’ve only just missed him. He’s gone to deal with some business in other areas of the North. He won’t be back for weeks. I’ve taken charge of Winterfell in his absence.”

Also leaning forward, the Lady studies the small man suspiciously. “Lannister, did you say? What do you want with Lord Stark?” 

Tyrion sighs and rubs a hand down his face. This not going according to plan at all. Jaime isn’t going to happy. “As, I’ve said. I was sent here by my brother. He’s been contemplating an alliance with your House, and I’m here to meet with Lord Stark and offer an alliance marriage proposal.” 

“I’m not sure you’re aware, but my father is already married.” Rob Stark quips, though his eyes are still serious. 

“No…” Tyrion is about to develop a headache. This is all going terribly wrong. “A marriage proposal between myself and his eldest daughter.” 

Suddenly, he meets the Lady’s stare, and she holds his gaze. Everything begins to fall into place. “You’re not Catelyn Stark either, are you? Her expression is half amusement and half stern. She shakes her head, a small smile playing at her lips. “Lady Sansa.” 

Tyrion nods, heat rising to his cheeks. “And now I’ve just made a huge fool of myself.” He pitches the bridge of his stubby nose. “I feel wholly and completely embarrassed.”

“Well don’t. Because there will be no marriage proposal.” 

Quite in shock at her brashness, Tyrion’s mouth falls open. “But, My Lady… That’s why I came all this way, to speak to your father about it.”

Lady Sansa lifts her chin and squares her jaw. “Well my father isn’t here. And even if he was, he wouldn’t listen to you.” 

“Sansa.” Rob shoots her a look, then turns back to Tyrion. “My sister is right. My father is a man of honor and pride. You said Jaime Lannister sent you? The Kingslayer? You really think my father wants an alliance with a man like that?”

“My brother is the Kingslayer, its true. But he’s a good man, and an even better Lord. He was forced into the Kingsguard when he was a very young man. Jaime had no choice. The Mad King would have burnt the entire city if it weren’t for him. And he wouldn’t have stopped there. Eventually, he would have destroyed all of Westeros; Casterly Rock, and Winterfell. You and I owe our lives to Lord Lannister.” He looks Rob directly in the eyes. “It wasn’t easy for him. After the war was won, it plagued him. Robert allowed him to resign and become Lord of our House, but he never fully recovered.”

“Even if the Kingslayer is as good as you say”, Lady Sansa cuts in, “don’t think even out here, we don’t know about your father, Tywin Lannister. We’ve heard the stories of the things he’s done, the people he’s hurt. And your sister, the Queen; she’s infamously heartless. I’ve met her. I’ve also met her eldest son. You think we want to be associated with people like that?”

Tyrion studies her. The distrust on her face is palpable. Why is so determined to think the worst of us? 

“I’ve never claimed my father was a good man, My Lady. I know what they all say about Cersei, and I’m not saying it isn’t, at least, half true. But she and Joffrey aren’t technically part of our house any longer, and Tywin Lannister has been dead for a long time. My brother Jamie is nothing like him, or Cersei. He’s sent me on a diplomatic mission, because he believes we will make good allies, putting his trust in Ned Stark. Isn’t that worth something?”

Lady Sansa doesn’t seem quite convinced, but Rob searches Tyrion’s face, scratching his chin in consideration. Finally, he falls back in his chair, relaxing in resignation. “Well…” He sighs. “I believe you. But I’m afraid my father and mother won’t be back for quite some time. There’s trouble in some of the other houses that required both of their attention. There can be no alliance without his word, but there can be good will shared.” Rob smiles, and Tyrion can’t help but smile back. The young man has such a pleasant face. “You’re welcome to stay here, My Lord, until you feel rested enough to return home.”

Oh, this works out quite nicely, Tyrion thinks. He doesn’t have to marry anyone; Jaime will be upset but he’ll get over it, and he can spend a few days enjoying the hospitality of the Starks. Maybe he’ll take the long way back and visit some other interesting places. He’s never been to The Wall. 

“Rob”, growls. There is a warning in her tone. They stare at one another for a moment. She shakes her head and then he responds in kind. She turns back to their visitor. “How do we know we can trust you, My Lord? Father’s never mentioned you or your brother. We didn’t even know you were coming.”

“My brother was supposed to send a Raven ahead to announce my arrival.”

The young woman shakes her head. “We received no such warning.”

Wonderful job, Jaime. Thank you.

“Jaime and Lord Stark have been in communication, or so my brother says. Surely he must have mentioned it.” Both Starks shake their heads. “Or perhaps, there are some of his scrolls lying around somewhere… There has to be some sort of record.” 

“I’ll look around”, Rob says rising to his feet. “In the meantime, your can stay here.” 

“Rob.” 

Sighing, Rob turns a warning look on his sister. “Father wouldn’t like it. He doesn’t trust people we don’t know.” Her voice drops to a whisper, “And neither do I.”   
Tyrion observes quietly, watching the siblings’ standoff with interest. He already knows who will win, but the friction between them is hard to miss. Perhaps he will learn a few things about the Starks while he’s here.

They’re still holding their stare, neither backing down. “Father wouldn’t like him being here.” Sansa tries again, but she’s lost her edge. She knows he will have his way. 

When she turns her gaze on Tyrion, he feels the ice return. Why does she seem determined to distrust him? What had he done? He sighs. No matter. He’ll be gone soon enough. 

That’s alright, My Lady. I’m just as anxious to have me leave this frozen wasteland as you are. 

Rob raises his chin and extends his hand to Tyrion. “As I said, you’re welcome here for as long as you need. The servants are at your disposal. We’ll have a room made up, and you’re welcome to join us for meals in the hall. I think you’ll see we Northerners have just as fine or better hospitality as they do down South. And you’ll have to try some of our newly opened wine while you’re here.”

Smiling, and relaxing for the first time since he’s arrived, Tyrion takes his hand and firmly shakes. “Thank you, My Lord. You’re most generous.” He grins, devilishly. “And I will be taking you up on that wine. There are few things I like more in the world than a good wine.” 

“Alann”, Rob says to one of the attendants standing beside the wall. “Please show Lord Tyrion to one of the guest chambers and see that he has everything he needs.”

The servant nods and moves towards the door. Tyrion follows, motioning to his men, but stops just before the doorway. 

He glances over his shoulder at them, letting his eyes meet Lady Sansa’s for a moment. “Don’t worry, My Lady. I won’t be staying long.” 

Then he’s out into the corridor. The servant continues down the hallway, followed by his men, but Tyrion hesitates outside the heavy wooden door. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, but something holds him there, keeps his ear pressed to the crack. 

“What is he going to do, Sansa?” Rob is speaking rather loudly, so Tyrion can hear every word clearly. “You think he and a handful of men are going to be able to take Winterfell?”  
“He could be a spy, sent here gather information and hurt us. I don’t trust him. His sister-.”

Sansa’s calm voice is gone. She’s upset. Angry. Rob cuts her off. “Yes I know what she’s like, but Cersei is married to King Robert, our father’s friend. And if Father trusts him, we should too.”

“Father doesn’t trust Robert. He doesn’t trust anyone outside our family. And he’s right. He’s always right, but you never listen to him. None of you. If Bran had just listened- If Arya had listened- We would be like this, separated and exposed. The lone wolf dies, Rob.” 

Tyrion can hear Rob’s feet clip across the stone floor. “Sansa. I know. Alright? I understand.” His voice is soft and reassuring. “I understand why you’re upset. You’re right we should be together. We need each other. But there’s nothing we can do about it. For now, the three of us are together and safe here. We have all the Winterfell army to protect us.”

“Not all.”

“Father did take an unusually large number with him.” There’s a long silence in which Tyrion nearly decides to slip away. Then Rob speaks. “Does that concern you?”

“Yes. Doesn’t it concern you?” 

After another long pause Rob replies. “Yes”, he admits in an unsure voice. 

“I just wish you would listen to me.” 

“I did listen, but I had to use my judgment in the end. We couldn’t have just thrown him out into the snow to die. We can’t afford to make an enemy of the Lannisters. What could a few nights hurt?” 

“Father put us both in charge. We were supposed to make these decisions together.” Tyrion can hear the resentment creeping into her voice. 

Rob sighs loudly. “Yes. But as the heir, and the eldest, the final decision falls on me. I’m the one responsible if anything happens. Father may have asked you to help, but he entrusted Winterfell into my hands. I have to do what I think is best. 

The sound of the door slamming inside the hall, is clear enough. Sansa has just stormed out. 

Silently, Tyrion creeps away and up the staircase to where a nice warm bed and bath awaits. But for some reason he isn’t nearly as excited as he was at the prospect earlier in the day. The conversation keeps replaying itself in his mind. They’re worried, truly worried. He could hear the genuine anxiousness in Sansa’s voice. Should he be worried too?


	3. The Game

The great hall is alive with the sound of feasting and revelry. At night, the hall is even more beautiful, warm light from the candles on the chandlers above glinting off metal; breastplates and goblets, and sparkling in eyes. Every inch of the tables has been laid with tall round saucers of hearty soups, patters with juicy carvings of elk and stag and of honey-dipped ham, maple biscuits and buttery rolls, steamed and broiled yams, potatoes, and sweet golden carrots; and the wines… Red wines, bitter wines, and wines so red they’re almost purple. 

Upon entering the hall, Tyrion heads straight for one such wine, snatching up an empty cup, and filling it to the brim.

There are a lot of people here. The great hall is filled with guests. He’d heard, as he wandered the castle passageways, about the special meal planned for tonight and the exciting visitors Rob was entertaining for the evening. He’d taken great care with the preparations; for these were two noble families he needed to impress. 

Tyrion spots him now, off to the side with a cluster of several young men, Rob Stark seems to be doing a wonderful job. His guests certainly do appear to be having a wonderful time, relaxing against the stone wall and resting their feet on benches. Rob Stark, not even Lord of Winterfell yet, is already impressing the other houses with hospitality and natural charm. 

There’s the young Lord, but where is…Tyrion scans the room in search of… 

And there she is, the stand-in Lady of Winterfell, Sansa Stark. She sits alone at the far end of the high table. While Lord Rob laughs and jests with his guests, Sansa Stark holds position at the front of the hall, keeping watch, eyes alert and constantly roaming about the room. 

They fix on him as he approaches. 

Red. Her hair golden and red in the flickering light, red to match the flickering flames roaring in the hearth behind her. It’s so bright and intense, that from this angle, she’s only a dark shadow against glowing fiery background. 

“Lady Stark.” He nods in greeting, and without asking permission, Tyrion rounds the end of the table to take the seat beside her.

She watches, though narrowed eyes, as he climbs into the strait-backed chair and settles himself against the hard wood. There’s a flagon of wine before her, and he immediately scoops it up, refilling his cup to the brim. “Ah”, he takes and sip and then tries to situate into a better position in his seat. 

These chairs are bloody uncomfortable. Can’t the Northerners spare a penny or two for some decent cushions? 

She’s still looking at him when he finished situating himself and glances over. Lifting a brow, she cocks her head. “My Lord.” 

He smiles broadly. “Good evening, My Lady. You’re looking well.” 

“Thank you. You are as well.” Brow still raised, she continues to stare at him. He only grins back and takes another sip of wine. Having realized he’s not planning on leaving anytime soon, Sansa Stark leans back into her seat and continues to pick at her meal. 

Tyrion glances over to where she’s pulling apart a roll of bread with fidgety fingers. She’s nervous, he realizes; and as he observes, Sansa glances over at Rob, where his companions have just struck up a drinking song, and are urging him to join in. When his eyes return to her plate, Tyrion is surprised to see there’s no goblet resting beside it. 

“You’re not drinking, Lady Stark?” 

Lady Sansa glances down at her food and then over at him. “Not tonight”, she replies politely, “I don’t drink often, My Lord.” 

“And why not?” Tyrion asks, already reaching for an empty cup and beginning to fill it. 

“Wine dulls the mind, and I have too much to worry about right now.” She begins to shake her head when he holds the silver goblet out to her, but he doesn’t take it back. He just calmly holds it between them. She stares at it a long moment, before finally giving up and taking the drink. 

“It is my experience that wine in just the thing for when I'm worried about something. It dulls the mind, yes, but that seems like something you do with right now.”

She takes a sip, and then another, before setting the goblet back on the table. Watching out of the corner of his eye, Tyrion hides a small smile behind his own cup, feeling oddly satisfied with himself. 

“So, that’s your brother Rickon, then?” He asks, pointing to where a younger boy with brown curly hair sits at a nearby table with a group of other boys much like himself. They seem to be teasing him about something, one of the older boys reaching across the table to his ruffle his curly head.

Lady Sansa smirks at the boys’ shenanigans, gaze holding fondly on her little brother. “Yes, that’s him.”

“I shall have to meet him, then.” Tyrion takes a sweet biscuit from the patter beside him, and shifts his eyes back to her. “If he’s half as charming as his siblings, we’re certain to get along just fine.”

Setting down her glass and, Sansa shakes her head and turns her body to face him. “What are you doing?” Tone is serious, but there’s a glint of something in her eye, a sly intrigue about her expression. 

“Well, I was going to eat this sweet roll, but-“ 

“What do you want? Why are you doing this?”

Tyrion frowns and sets down his glass. “Doing this?”

“Sitting here”, she motions at him with both hands, “making yourself right at home, making polite conversation with me”. 

“Why shouldn’t I?” He also turns in his seat, matching her gaze in kind. “Who else would I talk to?” 

Sansa’s all-seeing, blue eyes scan the hall, the many tables and people, oblivious in enjoyment. She bites her lip and then smiles. “What about them?” She motions to a nearby table where a group of large men, still covered in furs and mud from their day’s work, are shouting and playfully shoving one another. The men laugh uproariously from beneath their wild bushy beards and lift great mugs of ale to toast and then chug. The epitome of the Northerner. 

Snorting, Tyrion raises both eyebrows in mild disgust. “Yes. An excellent idea. Because obviously we have so much in common.”

Sansa smirks back at him. “What? And you have that with me?” 

“Yes. I think so. Don’t you?” He motions between them. “Both having grown up in the shadows of our older brothers, never able to live up their standards, always believing ourselves to be much smarter and being perhaps, partially right.”

“I don’t know about you and your brother, but it’s not that way between Rob and I.” Her tone frosty and defensive. 

“That’s not how it seemed form what I saw earlier today.”

“Well you’re wrong.” Lady Sansa squints and studies him, leaning in for emphasis. “You keep trying to change the subject. What are you really doing here, Lord Tyrion?”

“Just as I’ve told you, many times now, I came here, namely, to propose to you. Which obviously didn’t go nearly as well as my brother hoped. And I-.” Lady Sansa shakes her head and turns back to her plate, picking up a bite of meat then setting it down again, then scooping up her drink instead. “What do you think I’m going to do”, Tyrion continues with a sigh, “kill you all in your sleep and take Winterfell for myself. Trust me, I wouldn’t take it even if you offered. And do you really think I’m capable of anything of that magnitude?” 

Sansa squares her shoulder defensively. Her jaw stiffens. “I don’t know. Maybe.” 

“Yes. Perhaps I have some hidden supernatural skills, or maybe I’m an all-powerful demon, come up from the depths to exact my revenge on mankind. I’ve been hidden away many years, but now I’ve come destroy all of Westeros, starting with the North, and then the entire world.” 

Tyrion smirks at her and then takes a long drink from his glass. She watches, the corner of her mouth quirked in an almost smile, and sighs. “Fine. I see your point. But I still think you’re hiding something.”

“Please.” He reclines back in his chair, spreading his arms wide. “My Lady, I’m an open book.” 

“Very well, then. Shall we play a game?”

“With you?” He’s rather startled. Those were the last words he’s expected to hear coming out of her mouth. 

“Unless you’d like to play it with them.” She inclines her head towards the same group of wild-looking men. 

“Very well.” Cracking his knuckles, Tyrion settles back in his chair, raising his chin in confidence. “But I must warn you; I usually- or actually always- win at games.”

She doesn’t seem concerned. Instead, she points towards a table half-way down the hall. “You see that man over there, with the napkin tucked into his shirt, filling his cup right now?” Tyrion squints and then nods, fixing his eyes on the man. “Try to guess what he does.”

“I can think of several things he probably does. None of which would be very proper to say in front of a lady.”

There’s warmth that’s been creeping into her cheeks as they’ve been talking. The wine must be getting to her because she seems relaxed, and even, surprisingly, to be enjoying herself. This is quite a different person than the one he’d met earlier today, that’s he’s caught a glimpse of just now. She’s confident and eager, and Tyrion gets the feeling she wins a lot of games too.

“I mean what he does for a living, Lord Tyrion.”

“Alright”, Tyrion folds his hands and leans his chin on them, studying the man. He’s got thick, muscled arms and long black hair that tied into a knot at his neck. He’s got his sleeves rolled up and he’s not wearing a coat or cloak. “Hm, let’s see…” And on his forehead and cheeks, sweet marks on his dirty skin. Oh, this is too easy. He grins. 

“He’s a blacksmith, the best one in the castle, I’d say. Probably has been working in the billows all day, judging by the sweet marks on his face. He’s well respected by your family. I can see by the crest on that sword.”

“Hmm, that’s right.” Lady Sansa nods and settles her hands in her lap, sounding surprised and mildly impressed. “He is the castle blacksmith, but though he makes fine swords, his specialty is detailed craftmanship. He makes bobbins and buttons and such. Jewelry. Sword Handles. He made these clasps on my dress.”

Tyrion nods, obviously pleased with himself. 

Leaning her elbows on the tabletop, Sansa rests her chin on her hands and studies the crowd. “Alright, you’ve won the first round.” Tyrion cocks his head. “But perhaps it was just beginner’s luck. Let’s try something harder.” She finally finds her target and a coy smile slithers across her lips. “What about him?”

“Him, oh let’s see.” The man in question sits at the table closest to the high table. He has a solemn, shallow face and speaks softly with his companions. 

“I’d say he was a Maester but he doesn’t seem to have the snappy wardrobe for that. But he is important, probably one of your father’s advisors. But not one of the main ones… I think that would make him… the castle falconer.” Tyrion throws up he hands and falls back against the chairback in triumph- a little too hard because his head cracks loudly against the wood in emphasis.

“Huh.” Sansa’s eyebrows jump and she makes a little noise of surprise. “Right again.” She composes herself and shakes her head. “Very good.”

“See, I told you. I always win.” 

“You haven’t won yet. Still one round to go.” 

“Is that one of the rules?”

“Yes.” Holding a straight face, she avoids his eyes. 

“And who makes the rules.”

Sansa bites her lip and takes a sip of wine. “I do.”

“Uh-huh.” 

Still avoiding his gaze, Sansa clears her throat. Tyrion watches as she struggles to bite back the humor trying to show itself on her lips, trying to transform her stern expression. She’s actually fairly attractive like this, with wine receded cheeks and a relaxed ease to her movements; not his type, but relatively attractive. 

“Fine”, she says, raising a finger to point. “Tell me about him.”

“Ah, you picked a tricky one.” He pretends to think long and hard, even managing to look a bit concerned. “Very well”, he says finally, “I’m going to guess, first of all, that his mother died when he was young. He’s married to a woman he didn’t choose, but who he’s secretly in love with, and he has two children. His favorite food is roasted chestnuts. He certainly likes the drink; but you can very clearly see that right now by the way he’s filling up again. One of the senior officers in your father’s army. And he loves to sing, but is simply so terrible at it, and has been known to make men’s ears bleed. And… also, he hates cabbage. Did I miss anything?” 

“How did you- how did… do that?” Lady Sansa’s mouth is agape. The expression is hilarious, and very nearly ridiculous. “I-uh-.” She stares at Tyrion and then back at the man. 

He’s enjoying this far too much.

“Perhaps I am really a demon”, he jokes. “And I’ve been living in his head for many years, waiting until the time I can come out and drink the blood of all the Stark children.”

“No, really. How did you do that?”

Tyrion takes a deep breath of suspense, but then laughs. “I ran into him on my way down to the meal. I was a bit bored, so I struck up a conversation and got quite a bit more information than I bargained for.” 

With a snort, Lady Sansa collapses back into her chair, jaw working. She turns away and shakes her head to herself, as if she can’t quite believe the audacity of this insufferable little man. “Very cleaver. But that’s cheating.”

“Yes”, he replies raising his wine glass as if to toast to her, “But I won.”

Something shifts in Lady Sansa’s expression, an understanding, a clarity. Where she’d been amused, if not slightly intrigued, over the course of their conversation; now her face becomes impassive and calculating. There is no humor in her cold eyes. 

“You’re a very clever man, Lord Tyrion.” It doesn’t sound like a complement. “I don’t trust cleaver men.”

And again, just as he’d thought she was warming up to him, it comes back to this. Time to settle this once and for all. If she wants to be direct, get straight to the point, then very well. He leans in to search her eyes. The games are over. “Then tell me, Lady Stark, who do you trust?”

“No one. No one but my family.” She says it with such conviction. Tyrion snorts at that. How incredibly Stark of her. How naïve. 

“Even families can be disappointing. I would know.”

“Well my family is nothing like your family.” Her voice is full of contempt; deep and heavy as solid ice. 

“As someone with such a low opinion of the Lannisters, Lady Sansa, how do you know so much about me and my family?”

“Because I was almost married to your nephew.”

“Joffrey?” Tyrion is utterly speechless, but Sansa only nods in confirmation. 

“How did I now know about this?”

Her voice is dry when she speaks, eyes suddenly very far away. “Years ago, I went to visit King’s Landing with my father and spent several weeks there. King Robert invited us. I didn’t know, but my father did, that it was to arrange a marriage between me and the Prince. I learned a great deal about your family while I was there. At first, I was pleased about the marriage and enamored with Prince Joffrey. We almost didn’t realize what he truly is before it was too late.”

“Just days before the wedding, Father took me away from there, away from him. Robert wasn’t happy and Queen Cersei was furious. Joffrey didn’t really mind though; he was soon given Lady Robyn Arryn, my cousin, to take my place as his plaything. Joffrey is just like his mother. He may look like a stag, but he has the heart of a lion. That’s why I don’t trust the Lannisters, Lord Tyrion. That’s why I don’t trust you.”

His mouth falls open in gape and he splutters. “You think I’m like Joffrey?” 

“I think you’re a Lannister. And if you’re anything like the other Lannisters, which I suspect you are, I want you away from my family and my home as soon as possible.” She stands, swiftly, her chair making a loud scraping sound as she steps back form the table. Hands pressed flat to the tabletop, she towers over him with chin raised. “Good night, Lord Tyrion.” And then she’s gone, whirling away and disappearing out the side door to the hall, leaving Tyrion alone at the large empty table. 

Throwing back the last of his drink, he angerly slams down the goblet with a bang, and stalks away. 

Bloody damn fuc- who does she think she is? Damn woman! How dare she say… If she only knew Jaime… If she’d just give him a chance. Ugh! Tyrion growls low in this throat. Where is the bloody castle rookery? He needs to send a raven; and right now! 

Jamie,

You fucking bastard! Now I know why you sent me all the way up here to freeze my balls off in the bloody cold, so you’ll have to produce all the heirs of House Lannister. Also, you never mentioned what a lovely lady, the Stark girl is. I hope you can read my sarcasm though this letter because I assure you, we’ll be married within the month. 

Thank you, by the way, for sending a Raven ahead to announce me. Very thoughtful of you.

Lord Stark isn’t here, so I’ll be unable to discuss alliances with him. I’ll be on my way home as soon I dare brave this frozen wasteland. 

I hate the bloody North.

~Tyrion Lannister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, this version of Sansa is very similar to the one we see in seasons 7 and 8, except that she's not been though nearly as many hardships. She's the same but she's softer and more naïve, less self assured. She has a lot of trust issues, with good reason and we now know why, but there may be more that she's not willing to share... Lets just say, she has her reasons.   
> Next chapter is going to be where the fun begins and things start happening. And don't worry, they'll warm up to each other soon enough. 
> 
> I'll be updating as often as I can, hopefully a new chapter every week. Thanks so much for reading and for your lovely comments!


	4. The Raven Flies

The snow begins to fall as Tyrion joins Rob Stark on the open stretch of snowy lawn beneath the shadow of the outer wall. The thick snow is crossed and crisscrossed with pawprints bigger than the small man’s own footprint. 

Lord Rob doesn’t look up when Tyrion comes to stand beside him. He’s grinning, eyes glittering jovially. He’s in his element, with his cheeks stained by the cold and hair windblown and scattered with snowflakes, merry eyes taking in the scene before him.  
And what a scene it is. 

The Wolf. Agile and strong, brave but not fearless, smart but not cunning, the wolf is the embodiment of the wild. A middle ground in a world of extremes. Not the most fearsome or noble of beasts, but the most adaptable. The white wolf climbs the highest of snow-covered peaks and the grey and brown wolf race along the green floor of the thick, warm forests in the south. Tyrion can see why House Stark picked such an animal for their sigil. 

Four huge wolves- no, not wolves… Direwolves. Four gigantic Direwolves are racing about before them, bounding through snowdrifts and fighting over scraps of meat Rob has just been feeding them. Direwolves. Tyrion’s heart gives a little stutter. He’d only dreamed of such creatures before, and now he’s faced with not one, but four of the most beautiful beasts he’s ever seen. 

They’re too busy with their feasting and playing to have noticed his arrival, or else don’t care, but Tyrion can’t take his eyes off them.   
Rob’s grin widens when he sees the look on the other man’s face. “Never seen a Direwolf before, My Lord?” 

“I never dreamed I would”, Tyrion stares in awe. “Where I’m from they’re almost as mythical as Dragons and White Walkers. And you have for of them.” He chuckles from pure delight. 

Clapping him warmly across the shoulder, Rob leans over and points. “Well then, Lord Tyrion, meet Nymeria, Greywind, Shaggydog, and Lady.” He points to each in turn: two wolves of grey coats, a wolf with dark brown fur, and a wolf with a coat of light grey and white. “One for each of the Stark children.” 

Upon hearing her name, Lady trots up to Rob and places her chin in his waiting palm, eyeing Tyrion warily. “This one is Sansa’s.” 

Tyrion frowns, cocking his head as he watches Rob lovingly scratch behind the Direwolf’s ears. “I was told there were five Stark children.”

“Six, actually. But my brother, Jon, is a bastard.” Tyrion can tell the young man is avoiding his gaze. 

“Ah yes, Ned Stark’s famed bastard. I’d wished to meet him.” 

Rob sighs, scratching under Lady’s chin, eyes still downcast. “I’m afraid you can’t. He was sent to join the Night’s Watch just over a year ago.”   
“The Night’s Watch, eh? Poor bastard- I mean-.” He exchanges a glance with Rob and then snorts, “Poor bastard, bastard.” 

Both men watch as Lady sniffs at Rob’s cloak, hoping to find more food hidden somewhere within. Unable to find any, she turns away and, to Tyrion’s surprise, the young wolf begins cautiously prodding at the folds of his own trousers. He freezes, not wanting to scare her away, but Lady keeps nosing at him, until he careful extends a hand for her to sniff. To his astonishment, she presses her muzzle into his palm and glances up at him; as if to say: ‘Do you have any food? I’ll let you pet me if you give me some’. 

Tentatively, Tyrion begins to stroke her face, burying his fingers in layers of soft, thick down. At the same time, a flash of red in the window of the black-stoned tower above catches his eye, and when he looks, up he finds Sansa Stark watching them.

“Huh”, Lord Rob thumbs his chin thoughtfully. “I’m surprised she likes you.” His voice is slightly awed. “She’s usually suspicious of strangers.” 

Tyrion casts another look up toward the tower window, and Rob follows his gaze. “Just like her mistress.”

For a moment, their eyes meet, and Lady Sansa regards him. Then, losing interest, she turns away and disappears from sight.   
“Sansa.” The young man sighs. “Yes, she’s a true Northerner. We’re notoriously distrusting of outsiders.” 

“Really? I couldn’t tell.” Tyrion cocks an eyebrow and Rob chuckles. 

Quiet settles around them, as dense as the snow that’s falling steadily on their shoulders and in their hair, as they continue to watch playful beasts nip at each other and roll about in the powder. 

Tyrion finally breaks the silence. “And what of the others”, he says, daring to ask a question he’d been hesitant to broach, until now.

“Others?” Lord Rob still seems lost in his own thoughts.

“You said there are six Stark children. There are three of you here, one is a bastard at The Wall; where are the others?” 

The young Lord takes a deep breath, closing his eyes against the icy wind, and lets it out slowly. For a moment, he’s a far away, his eyes fixed on some spot on the horizon. It weighs on him heavily, the separation of his family, just as it did on Lady Sansa the day Tyrion had eavesdropped on them in the great hall. 

“My second youngest brother, Bran. He had…gifts.”

Gifts? 

“He could see things… do things that none of us could understand.” Rob Stark rubs a hand across his eyes. “He was a normal boy, but as he got older something started to change. He began to have terrible visions. He would sit out in the Godswood for hours, with his hand on the trees and his eyes glazed over.” With a small shake, Rob swallows. “He called it the Three-eyed Raven. Kept saying he had to go… One day he did. He just left, without telling anyone. He was spotted headed North. Rumors have come back that he’s gone beyond The Wall, to whatever thing that had been calling him. Mother keeps saying he’ll come back someday, but I think we all know he never will.”

What a strange boy. What a strange story. Tyrion might be beginning to understand the Starks better than he’d planned to.   
“And, my sister, Arya- she’s youngest after Sansa- is far away from here, across the Narrow Sea, learning to fight.”

“Learning to fight”, Tyrion echoes, quizzically. 

Rob nods, eyes still distant. “Learning to sword fight. It’s what she’s always wanted. Father didn’t want her to leave, but she said she would anyway, run away like Bran; so he let her go.” 

Tyrion doesn’t know what to say. The stories sound outlandish and fantastical, but the look in young Rob’s eyes tells him otherwise   
“You truly have such a strange family, Lord Rob. It’s like a story out of one of my books.”

Rob smiles wryly. “Unfortunately, it’s not just a story. We are a strange lot I suppose, and least of all of us is Sansa.”

“Really? You seem rather normal yourself, My Lord.”

Chuckling, Rob finally turns to face him. He motions with his hand, and the two begin walking slowly back towards the outer wall. “I’m afraid, I’m not all that I seem. Even I have my demons.” Tyrion raises his brow, clearly interested, and Rob continues. “Haven’t you wondered why I’m not married yet?”

“I hadn’t. But I suppose, now that I think about it, it is odd.”

Knowingly, Lord Rob strokes his chin. The pair continues to stroll along, parallel to the high wall. “I fell in love with someone at a very young age. Didn’t exactly work out. I’ve never quite… recovered.” His lips press into a tight line. “Father was worried at first, then impatient, but now he’s getting frantic. I’m the heir to Winterfell, and without luck, I won’t be able to produce an heir of my own.” 

Tyrion can tell this is a sore point for the young man, a constant source of worry, and a legitimate fear. Without an heir, their House could be overthrown or even cease to exsist. “I see.” Tyrion breaks tension-filled silence, trying to put the young man at ease. “What was her name?” 

“Lyanna…” There’s a witfulness to his voice that is hard to fake; nearly as hard as the heartbreak in his eyes.

Rob sees the look Tyrion is giving him and quickly clarifies. “Lyanna of House Mormont. Not the Lyanna I’m related to. Not my aunt.” 

“What happened?”

Though they’ve been taking their time, walking slowly together, they’ve nearly reached the steps that will lead them back up to the battlements and back inside the safety of the walls. Behind them, the Direwolves continue to scuffle, following the pair at a distance. There’s a shrill yip as one of the wolves gets over excited and bites the other a little too hard. Tyrion and Rob both glance back at the disturbance.

“She’s a lot like my sister Arya”, Rob replies, kicking at a large chunk of snow in his path, “a warrior”. “She’s a fearsome woman. Our Houses have always been close, and we would spend a lot of time together, being the eldest siblings, going on all the hunts with our fathers. She loved me; she told me so. We were going to get married, but, well, I had my house and she had House Mormont. She’s extremely loyal to her house, and to her family, even more than I am. She would never leave her House. So, she chose it instead.” 

“And what became of her?”

“She leads House Mormont and their armies. They aren’t a large House, but they’re a proud one, and every man is twice as good as from any other House.” He grins to himself, as if recalling a fond memory. “They respect her. She had become a great leader, just as I always knew she would.”

Tyrion studies the younger man’s face, solemn and honest despite the hardships he and his family have faced. He wonders how Rob has remained so steadfast while everyone around him struggles so. Perhaps it is his strength of character. Perhaps it is because he is the oldest, that it is his duty; he does because he must. It reminds Tyrion of another oldest sibling he knows. 

“I think you’d get along with my brother. You’re a lot like him, you know.”

Rob shoots him a skeptical glance. “I’m like the Kingslayer?” 

“More than you might think. I surprises even me.” 

They’ve reached the steep steps ascending to the top of the wall, and Rob pauses, propping his foot up on the lowest one, dusting the snow off his lower leg. He considers Tyrion a moment. “And you’re a lot like my sister, Sansa.”

Tyrion has to laugh at that. Shaking his head, he chuckles to himself. “Hardly. She made that very clear during our conversation the other night. She can’t stand me.” 

“That doesn’t mean you she isn’t like you.” Rob has finished dusting himself off, but still doesn’t move, planted in Tyrion’s way. “I’ve only known you a few days, and I already notice the similarities.”

“She detests me”, Tyrion insists. 

“She distrusts you”, Rob corrects, “Which isn’t the same thing. And don’t feel too special about it. She’s not very trusting of anyone. I’m not sure she likes anyone outside of our family.” To Tyrion’s surprise, Rob leans down to look him in the eyes, placing a large hand on his small shoulder. His eyes flicker between both of Tyrion’s. “Don’t judge her too quickly, alright. Sansa has her reasons, and good ones.”

When the young man’s gaze has lingered long enough to make it uncomfortable, Tyrion finally nods and swallows. He doesn’t understand Lady Sansa, but he does trust Rob Stark; for some reason he trusts him and takes him at his word. 

Rob pats him on the shoulder and then turns back towards the pack of Direwolves. He whistles, shrill and piercing, and calls, “Here Greywood. Come!” 

“Rob!”

A sharp cry from above. Tyrion frowns and glances over at Rob. “What was that?” They both cock their heads and listen.

“Almost sounded like Sansa...” He’s just looked back at the wolves when it comes again, but louder this time. 

“ROB!”

Squinting against the cold sunlight, Tyrion glances up towards the top of the steps where Lady Sansa has just appeared. Her face is red and blotchy from running in the frosty air, her chest heaving as she comes to a shaking halt. She locks eyes with her brother, and in them, Tyrion recognizes pure desperation. His heart sinks. Something terrible has happened. 

A moment later, Lady Sansa is clambering down the steps on shaky legs, lifting her skirts with one hand and holding the other out to balance herself against the wall. Rob bounds through the snow and is at the bottom when she finally reaches it. 

“Rob”, she cries, reaching out for him. 

“Sansa? What is it?”

She’s shaking and as pale as a ghost. There are tears in her eyes. “Oh Rob.” It comes out as a sob.

“Sansa.” Her brother grips her arm and searches her grief-stricken expression. “What’s happened? Tell me!” 

Pressing her lips together, in an effort to keep the sobs in, she shakes her head. Her throat is too tight to speak. If she does, she’ll break completely. 

“Sansa!” Rob gives her a firm shake, his tone growing desperate. “Tell me!” 

Still gasping, Lady Sansa lets go of the young Lord’s arm and reaches into the folds of her skirt, pulling out a folded, single slip of parchment. Her fingers fumble with the folds of fabric. “A Raven just arrived. It’s Father and Mother. They-.”

Sansa loses her balance, her shaky legs nearly giving out beneath her, and catches herself on Tyrion’s shoulder as he stands beside her. He reaches out to steady her, looking up at her in concern. “Are you alright, My Lady”, he asks, but Sansa doesn’t seem to notice, still trying to free the bit of parchment. 

When its finally out, Rob snatches it from her hand and hurriedly unfolds it. His eyes dart back and forth across the words written in hasty script as she continues. “They have been taken captive by the Freys. Most of their men were slaughtered when they were welcomed to a feast in Father’s honor. This man barely made it out to send this message. Mother and Father were still alive when he escaped. He says the Freys are working with the Boltons, and who knows how many other Houses could be involved. He says they’re on their way…” Her voice breaks and she balls her fists inside her thick black gloves. “He says the Bolton army is marching on Winterfell as we speak.” 

When Lord Rob finally looks up from the message, he locks eyes with his sister. So many unspeakable things pass between them in that moment. A million expressions flicker across the man’s face. But he finally settles on one; a grim determination. 

Before either Tyrion or Sansa know what’s happening, Rob is brushing by them and rushing up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. “Guards! Guards!” He calls, and a few moments later, one of the soldiers appears at the top of the wall. “Where is the Captain?” 

Tyrion casts a questioning look towards Sansa, but she is already hiking up her skirts and running after her brother. “Rob wait.” Tyrion takes a few puffs of breath and then follows, his short legs much slower in the climb. 

When he arrives at the top, Rob is shouting orders. “Captain, taken you men to the yard and begin gathering all the spare weapons and armor we have. Then begin outfitting the men. And you, Captain Rein, gather all the men we have and taken them out to the yard and put them into formation. Where is Bernerd?”

“Here I am, My Lord.” A man races over through the pack of men shouting and running about in frantic preparation. 

“Good man. I’ll be sending you and a few of your men out riding to some of the nearest Houses. Gather our allies, as many as you can, and call them to arms. Call them to protect Winterfell. Be careful.” He places a hand on the man’s shoulder. “We don’t know who we can trust. Anyone can be working with the Boltons and Freys. If you see anything suspicious, get out of there. Now leave immediately.”  
“Yes, My Lord.” And then he’s gone, racing down the length of the wall. 

“You men, come with me. We’ll need to begin forming a strategy.” Rob lifts his head to call above the hectic din. “Someone call the Maesters!” Then he turns back to his men. “Send someone to fetch my armor and meet me in the Lord’s Chambers.”

“Rob!” Sansa and Tyrion have been hurrying along behind the acting Lord as he moved along the battlements, but now Sansa takes hold of his arm, distracting him. Her face is deathly pale, and there’s a haunted look in her eyes. She’s terrified. It makes Tyrion’s already pounding pulse begin to race with dread. If she’s that afraid, and she knows these people who have taken her family hostage, how scared should he be? A stranger, in a castle about to sieged. 

“Rob”, she chokes out again, fingers biting into his arm. The young Lord glances back at her then nods to his Lords, who hurry about their tasks. Then Rob leans in close, taking both of Sansa’s shoulders in his hands, and looking her firmly in the eye. For a moment, she studies his face. Its such an intimate moment that Tyrion begins to feel uncomfortable. He feels like he should leave, but where would he go?

“Sansa”, Rob begins, “You’re going to have to be very, very brave. I need you. I need to you to be strong.” 

She licks her lips, eyes flickering down in guilt. “It’s my fault. Rob, the Boltons...”

“No”, he insists, giving her shoulders a shake. “No. It’s not your fault. This has been coming for a while now. You know all the trouble Father has been talking about, the reason they left. This is about Father and the other Lords; not you. Do you understand me?”

Swallowing tickly, she nods, and Rob continues. “I need you to do something, something I know you won’t want to. But you have to. I need you to; for Father and Mother.” Sansa begins to shake her head, pulling back from his grasp, but Rob holds tight. 

“We’re not a match for the Boltons army, not without the other houses. We need more men. I need you to go to Eerie and ask Aunt Lisa for help. Ask her to send the Knights of the Vale to come to our aid.”

“No!” Sansa’s face grows hard and she jerks back. “No! I won’t abandon my people. I won’t abandon you and Rickon, and will not abandon our home!” 

“You’re not abandoning us, Sansa. You are saving us. We will not win without her army.”

“Send a Raven then, or one of your most trusted men.”

But Rob is already shaking his head. “No. Sansa, you know her. She won’t come unless one of us asks her directly. You remember what it was like the last time Mother visited. Even if she knows they are in danger of dying, she wouldn’t dare let her army leave. The only hope we have, is if you can somehow convince her.”

“But she won’t listen-.”

“Sansa.”

She finally looks him in the eyes, her own brimming with shining tears. Shaking her head, she tried to swallow around the lump in her throat, but there’s a fierceness in her gaze. “The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. That’s what Father always said. If I leave… Rob. I can’t bear to lose any more of you.” 

With a tight sob of his own, Lord Rob suddenly gathers his sister into his arms, his hand cradling the back of her head and holding her tightly. “Listen to me. We’re going to defeat the Boltons then we going to take out armies and take Mother and Father back. Understand? We will all be together again. I promise.” He presses a small kiss to the side of her head and then draws back. “But none of that can happen without you. I need you Sansa, we need you. Will you do this, for Mother and Father, for Winterfell?”

With an uncertain look, she searches his eyes. Then, very slowly, she nods, determination and conviction hardening her features. Rob returns the gesture. “Good girl.” 

Suddenly, the young Lord rounds on Tyrion, who had been standing awkwardly off to the side, waiting patiently. “Its not safe for you here, My Lord.”

“I agree.”

“You and your men will accompany my sister to the Eerie. You will be safe and once there, you can either wait for the trouble to end, or make your way home. All I ask it that you see my sister there safely.”

Tyrion begins to shake his head. This doesn’t sound like a good plan. He needs to go home, not to the Eerie. “I-.”

Rob, in no mood to be argued with, cuts him off. “Unless, you’d like to venture out into the winter with no protection, into a land where Southerners are despised and killed for sport. If you travel with Sansa, you’ll have the protection of her men and our name. Without it, you won’t survive in this time of war.”

Tyrion swallows. It appears that he doesn’t have much choice in the matter. He glances at Lady Sansa, who is watching him intently, and then nods his head. “Alright. I’ll go.” 

“Thank you, My Lord”, he says, clasping Tyrion’s hand in his own large one. He flashes the briefest of relieved smiles. “I promise you, Lord Tyrion. If you bring my sister safely to our Aunt, you’ll will have a life-long friend in House Stark.” 

And then, he’s whirling away to make battle plans and command his army, leaving Tyrion alone with Lady Sansa. 

They stand alone, under a gabled roof in the battlements, snow falling thickly around them. Tyrion takes a deep breath and then glances up at her. She seems to be gathering her strength, gazing around at the home she’s known all her life, and now might never see again. 

“So”, he says, taking a deep breath and placing his hands on his hips. “When do we leave?” 

Sansa’s profile is dark and sharp against the hazy white sky. She turns her head down to look at him. 

“Right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This where the fun begins! I hope you all are having as much fun with this story as I am. 
> 
> I hadn't really thought of a pairing between Rob and Lyanna Mormort before I was outlining this fic (probably because she's really young) but now that I've aged her up, I'm kinda obsessed with it. I feel like these two would go together so well, so I'm excited to explore it a bit. 
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading! I appreciate the likes and very kind comments so much!


	5. Like A Sword

Her dreams are full of them. Her family. And during the long hours of travel, when there is nothing to do but stare at the trail ahead and feel the jerky rhythm of the horse beneath her, they fill her thoughts. In the light of day, she tries not to imagine all the horrible things that could be happening; her parents locked in a dark cell; Ramsey Bolton smiling as he slits her brother’s throat. At night its all she can imagine. The days wear on and each night when they make camp, and the weariness of the day pulls her down into deep sleep, she thinks; surely it won’t be so bad tonight. And every night its worse. 

This is the first time she’s spent any significant time apart from her family. There has always been at least one of them there with her. The farther she and the group get from home, the more certain becomes the feeling that things will never go back to the way they were, that she may never return at all. 

Sansa has never been on such a long ride on horseback before. The longest journey she’s ever made, that one to the Capital years ago, was by carriage. There is a great deal of difference between the two. To begin with, her back is aching from having to sit up straight in the saddle and rump has never been so sore, whereas the only fear of discomfort on her carriage ride was a few sore muscles from sitting for such a long time. The other big difference, of course, was that she had her Father with her, sitting on the seat beside her. She remembers leaning over to rest her head on his shoulder. He’d patted her head, smoothing her hair with a calloused, but gentle hand, and hummed a soft song until she’d fallen asleep. 

Now, she is not beside her father, but riding beside Cersei Lannister’s brother, the Imp, Tyrion Lannister. She has to admit; he isn’t the of worst company. He doesn’t talk too much, surprisingly, and every now and then, he’ll whistle an upbeat tune of strike up a conversation with herself or one of the men. Somehow, it’s a welcome distraction from the thoughts and worries building up inside her head. 

Lord Tyrion’s favorite traveling activity is to compose and then pose riddles. At first, she had only listened to other men trying to figure out the answers, but she couldn’t keep her curiosity at bay and began to join in. The first time she’d answered one, Lord Tyrion had turned to her with a guffaw. “Lady Sansa, you solved my best riddle in under five minutes! Where did you learn how to do that?”

She lifted her chin wryly, unable to keep the satisfied smirk from her lips. “You’re not the only clever one, My Lord.” Then she turned to face the trail ahead once again, grin still playing at her lips. “Or perhaps, you’re not as clever as you think you are.” 

The first night after they’d left behind the small towns and snow, when they made camp in a clearing in the woods and built a large campfire, Lord Tyrion had gotten one of the men to help unload a large sack of something bulky from one of the pack horses. He’d made his bed beside the fire, in a ring with others, and set the package down beside it. Sansa, who was a few beds away, had watched intently, suddenly unexplainably curious about the contence of something so bulky and heavy. It must be important for him to haul it halfway across the continent. 

When he began to unwrap it, she leaned over to watch. She could barely see, but where those blocks? She squinted in the dim, flickering firelight at the several stacks of square things. “Are those books?” She hadn’t meant to say it out loud. 

“Yes, Lady Sansa”, Lord Tyrion had confirmed, patting one of the stacks, “Only the finest in all of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Unable to hold back her surprise and confusion, she had sat up in her bed and gaped at him. There must be thirty volumes there! You brought that huge pile all the way to Winterfell?!” 

Lord Tyrion picked up a book a brushed off the cover and blew away the dust. “Well, I wanted to bring more, but there wasn’t room. These are only a small portion of my favorites. There was a wonderful volume I was in the middle of when I left, and I had to leave it behind. It’s been plaguing me the entire journey. I may never know how the Witch of the Vale achieved immortality for the Prince!”

She was outraged then. “You wasted a whole horse just for that!” 

“I wouldn’t say wasted. I didn’t know exactly how long I’d be staying, and I didn’t want to get bored.”

“We have books at Winterfell.”

Lord Tyrion had cast her a rueful smile. “Not like the ones in the Casterly Library.” 

Exasperated, Sansa had plumped up her pillow, and muttering to herself, turned her back to the fire nestling herself beneath the quilts and furs. It was chilly night. 

But, when she’d rolled back over some time later, she’d seen him; propped up in his bed, squinting in the dying firelight with an open book resting on his chest.  
She’d studied him in the flickering darkness for a moment, her brow creased in concentration. And when she closed her eyes a minute later, her mind had still lingered on him, until she fell into sleep’s black embrace. 

The days passed and the group became more comfortable together, became more used to one another. And they became used to their new routine. Wake early and pack up camp. Ride and ride and ride, with only a few stops throughout the day for meals and to relieve themselves. Then, when it got dark; set up camp once again and try to sleep as well as stiff muscles and the hard ground would allow. Then do it all over again. 

After weeks of this, they are nearing the Vale. The landscape has begun to change; from thick, woody forests, to patchy woods and glens and rocky hills. The air grows warm and humid. The skies are nearly always cloudy, and it rains quite frequently, soaking the small party and making it impossible for any of their clothing to ever get completely dry. 

They stop for the noon meal beneath an outcropping of rocks in the side of hill. As had become the usual, they feast on cold wild grouse and hunks of dry, brown bread. It had been raining that morning, so the ground is still damp when Sansa sits down to rest her sore calf muscles and try to enjoy her small portion. 

When they are all finished, Lord Tyrion stands up, dusting off his breaches, and looks around at the group. “Shall we continue?” His eyes meet Sansa’s, but she really doesn’t want to get up. She doesn’t want to climb back on that horse and feel that monotonous bouncing rhythm rattling through her spine. But of course, she has to. Rob is counting on her. Winterfell is counting on her. That is the only reason she rises in the morning and lies down on the soggy earth at night. It is always on her mind, the pressing worry; we must hurry. We don’t have much time. 

Sansa nods and the other men grumble and mutter as they began to climb to their feet and pack up their things. Sansa stretches and is about to get up, when Lord Tyrion extends a hand down to her. She hesitates and stares at it, licking her lips. When she glances up at him, there’s an incredulous look on his face, as if he can’t believe she still insisting on giving him a hard time. With a small huff, she presses her lips together and takes his hand, letting him pull her to her feet. 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” He says, shooting her a small grin as they make their way back across the grass to the pack of horses. 

She just shakes her head and rolles her eyes. 

Later, in the afternoon, the group is making its way down a thin trail through a sparse forest. They haven’t stopped since they’d had the noon meal, and Sansa is getting hungry again and her bladder is quite full. As they go, the Captain of her guard, Jarak, offers her a drink from a waterskin, but the bouncing of the horse is already making it almost unbearable, so she declines. 

They’re almost out of the woods now, it’s just tall, busy shrubbery and small straggly trees before they reach another wide clearing. Sansa hopes they’ll call a halt at the edge for a break so she can relieve herself.

They’ve just passed the tree line when Jarak pulls up sharply, jerking on the reigns. Lord Tyrion, who’s behind him, nearly runs his horse into him. “What is it”, Sansa asks, yanking her horse to a stop behind him. 

“Why are we stopped-”, one of the Lannister men starts to ask, but Jarak shushes him quickly, shooting them all a warning glance and raising a hand for silence. They wait, with mouths closed and ears open, eyes fixed on Jarak, listening for the slightest sound. Sansa’s pulse races, but she fights to keep her breaths calm and quiet.

Then, Jarak slowly moves his hand to point at something at the opposite end of the clearing. Everyone’s heads turn in that direction, eyes darting wildly. Sansa finds it a second later. 

There is a patch of bushes and trees there across the lawn and there just above the shrubbery line, are five heads, watching them. They’re dirty, dressed in ragged cloth and furs, with spiky helmets and rough spears in their hands. Five wild-looking men watch from the shelter of the foliage. 

Sansa’s breath hitches in her throat and she freezes. The men just watch, unmoving, unblinking. Menacing. The two groups observe each other from across the clearing. Neither moves; neither speaks. None of their men even dare to breathe. 

Then very slowly, the wild men turn and disappear into the woods. 

Beside her, Tyrion lets out a long breath. “What was that? Who were those people?” 

Jarak finally allows his shoulders to relax. “Men of the hill tribes. Mountain Men. They have been known to attack unassuming travelers who are attempting to enter the Vale.”

“I’ve never heard of them”, Sansa has no doubt that these Mountain Men would attack them. She’d seen the way they were watching, the look in their eyes.

“Ah”, Lord Tyrion says, stroking his chin. “They think the Vale belongs to them. They resist the rule of House Arryn and would to anything to drive them out and take the Eyrie for themselves. They’re completely uncivilized. Jon Arryn is always complaining of raids on his people and difficulty traveling home on the Eastern Road. 

Jarak nods. “We should steer clear of them as far as possible. Best to avoid any sort of confrontation. We, with proper weapons and skill, would probably win, but best not to risk it.” 

Sansa’s eyes return to the place the wild men had just disappeared from, as they group begins to move in the opposite direction. There’s a slight prickle on her spine, as if she can still feel them watching.

They ride until nightfall. The party is still a bit shaken from the encounter with the Mountain Men earlier, but when the fire is finally successfully lit, despite some very damp wood; they all cheer up at the promise of a hot meal. 

Sansa finds her eyes darting around the foliage surrounding their camp, unable to shake the idea that someone might still be watching, just waiting for them to fall asleep before they move in for the kill. She shakes herself out of it and takes a bowl of stew the men are passing out. The wooden bowl is warm in her hands and she cradles it to her chest, enjoying the feel and the smell of the hot steam wafting up into her face. 

A few moments later, she finds herself seated on an overturned log beside Lord Tyrion, slowly ladling the savory broth into her mouth. He doesn’t even notice when she sits. He’s already gotten out one of his books, unsurprisingly, and has his nose buried in it. She glances over and then rolls her eyes. 

“So…I’ve got a riddle for you.”

That gets his attention. He lifts his head and turns to study her. “Have you.” He asks, instantly intrigued. 

Sansa nods and takes another slip of her stew. “I have. If you’re up for it.” 

Tyrion sets his book aside. “I don’t know if I’ve told you this, but I’m really very good at games and winning. 

“You have.” She assures him. After a pause, she glances over and he raises his eyebrows expectantly. 

In truth she’s been perfecting it for a few days now, but she’s not going to tell him that. It’s a good one and she’s very proud of herself. Now, for the final test. Can the master of riddles solve it? 

“My house is not quiet. I am not loud. I am swift, but my home is swifter still. At times I rest, but my dwelling still moves. As long as I remain inside, I live. But if I am ever parted with my house, I will too soon die. What am I?” 

Lord Tyrion takes a long breath. “I’m going to need to think about this.” He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest and stares into the fire; as if the answer is hidden somewhere in its depths. 

Sansa returns to her stew, secretly grinning behind her spoon. 

I think I’ve got him. 

Sometime later, Tyrion finally stirs from his contemplation and nods to himself. “Alright”, he says swiveling in his seat to face her. “I think I may have solved it.”

Sansa raises one eyebrow. “Alright. Go ahead.” 

With a deep breath Tyrion begins slowly. “Its something quiet and fast. Its house is loud and even faster. When it sleeps, its house still moves. My answer aligns with every requirement, except the final one: that if it leaves it house, it will die.” He searches Sansa’s face but she only nods. 

“Give it a go, then.” 

After another moment’s hesitation, Lord Tyrion licks his lips. “I say, it is a man riding in a carriage.” He hurriedly continues. “The carriage is loud and bumpy. It moves even when the man inside is sleeping. And no man can outrun a carriage. The only part it doesn’t work with is the dying part. But maybe this man can’t fight and if he gets out, he’ll be cut down by enemies… That’s best I can figure out.”

“Is that your final answer?” She can barely keep herself composed. 

“Yes. I suppose.”

“You’re incorrect.” And she can’t hold it in any longer. A wide grin stretches across her face.

“Bloody dammit!” Tyrion huffs and throws a stick savagely into the campfire. 

Sansa even dares to laugh, chuckling maniacally at her own genius. Lord Tyrion had beat her at her own game on the night of the feast, but now she’s beat him at his. It feels good. It feels very good. 

“Alight”, Tyrion sighs. “You won. You stumped me.” He gives a little mock bow. “So, what is the answer?” 

“I’m not going to tell. I’m not going to just give it away.”

“What?” Tyrion cries. “You have to. You’re not going to leave my in suspense like that.” 

She lifts her chin cocks her head. “Maybe I will.”

“I swear to all the gods, if you dare-.”

“It’s a fish.” 

Tyrion pauses, confusion written on his features. He purses his lips and narrows his eyes. “…what?” 

“The answer. It’s a fish.” 

With great, exasperated groan he slaps himself on the forehead. “Of course. Bloody idiot!” He buries his face in his hands and Sansa laughs again. 

A little while later, when the fire has been reduced to two charred logs and a bed of coals, and the soft glow of the flames has dimmed, Sansa is still in the same position. Several of the men have already lain down on the makeshift beds, while others sit about whispering to each other or getting lost in their own thoughts. It is late, but though Sansa is so tired from the long day, she doesn’t want to sleep. Not just yet. The fire is so warm. And she’s so comfortable. 

Beside her, Lord Tyrion is on the ground, reclining against the log, book in hand. 

“How can you possibly read so much?” The words are out before she realizes she’s says them. 

Wryly, Tyrion smirks into his book, but doesn’t look up. “And why don’t you?” 

She snorts dismissively. “I don’t have time that.” 

“Why don’t you look at me and tell me what you see, Lady Stark.” 

“What?” He confusion is obvious. That was not what she was expecting. 

Finally, he sets the book down in his lap and looks over at her. They aren’t far away from each other. She hadn’t realized until he turned towards her. She can see the tiny lines beside his eyes and in his brow so clearly. She scoots backwards a little, suddenly uncomfortable. 

“What you see, it a dwarf. If I had been born a peasant, I might have been left in the woods to die. Alas, I was born a Lannister of Casterly Rock. Unfortunately, things are expected of me. My father was the Hand of the King for twenty years. My brother is Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord of our House. My sister is married to the new King, and my repulsive nephew will be King after him. I must do my part for the honor of my House.” Tyrion glances down at his book and then meets her eyes once more.  
“My brother has his sword, you see, and I have my mind. And a mind needs books like sword needs a whetstone. That is why I read so much.”

For a moment, they stay like that, starring into each other’s faces, each other’s eyes. An understanding passes. Something passes… 

Then he smirks and lifts his book once more. “That, and it’s an excellent way to get people not to talk to you at feasts and celebrations. You should try it sometime.”  
“Sure”, she says, still watching him, half smile at her lips. “I’ll do that.” 

… 

The mountains loom. Silver mist blurs the line between earth and sky. It’s a chilly day; air heavy with moisture and sky thick with clouds. The valley is narrow, so narrow that only three horses can ride side by side down the rocky trail. Above, along the walls of the ravine, soldiers stand guard along the craggy ledge. Their eyes follow as they make their way. Only their heads move, tracking the visitors’ progress. 

Before them is the Bloody Gate. And beyond that, the Eyrie; a spire rising from a cleft in the mountains with a shining keep at the top. The narrow, arched, stone bridge is the only way in. 

But not the only way out. 

Sansa has never been to the Eyrie. The only time she’s ever met her Aunt Lysa was when she came to visit Winterfell eight years ago. Sansa was young and she hadn’t stayed long, so she never had much of a chance to get to know her aunt. Three years ago, her mother had gone to visit Aunt Lysa at the Eyrie. Things…had not gone well. Lysa Arryn had changed. She was unstable; mad almost. After her only daughter had been married off to Joffrey, she’d become inconsolable. When Lady Catelyn returned home, she had quite a story to tell. Apparently, Lysa had developed quite a liking for throwing people through the Moondoor. 

And now their reunion. How will Aunt Lysa react when she sees her. She can have only gotten worse over the years… How in the name of the Seven is she going to convince her Aunt to help them?

“Ah, the Eyrie.” Beside her, Tyrion tilts his head upward and squints in the pale sunlight. “They say its impregnable.” 

“They do say that.” 

The two captains ride, side by side, in front of the procession, with Sansa and Tyrion just behind them. Its unsettling, being closed in like this, watched from every angle. Sansa’s eyes dart about. Suddenly she begins to feel trapped. 

Lord Tyrion flows her gaze. “Nice fellows, aren’t they?” 

She meets his gaze and they exchange a look, before her eyes return to the watchers on the cliffs. 

Just ahead, the portcullis begins to grind open. Sansa’s eyes fix on the metal gate as rises. From the between the shadowy archway, ride five soldiers, wearing silver armor and riding silver horses. Jarak calls a halt and they wait. 

The knights canter up and come to a stop before them. Their leader, the man in the front with darker armor, raises his visor to reveal a solemn face and black beard. He nods to Sansa. “Hello, Lady Stark.”

“And who are you?” Sansa nudges her horse forward, in between the two captains, and raises her voice. 

“Sir Vardis Egen, Knight of the Vale.” He gives a slight bow and exchanges a look with the man beside him. “Lady Arryn is expecting you?” 

“No.” Sansa lifts her chin and leans forward in earnest. “There wasn’t time to send word. My mother, Catelyn Tully-Stark, and Lord Stark have been captured. Winterfell is under attack. I must speak with my Aunt immediately.”

“And, may I ask, what he is doing with you?” The soldier points at Tyrion, narrowing his eyes slightly in distrust. 

Sansa casts Tyrion a hesitant glance. “He has been escorting me safely here, upon my brother Rob’s request.” 

“And these are Lannister men?”

Taking a deep breath, she steels herself and her voice grows stern with impatience. “These men are with me. Now please, take me to my Aunt at once.”

The soldier exchanges another worrying glance with his companions, before giving Tyrion a long look and turning back towards the gate, motioning for them to follow. 

Sansa swallows hard and then urges her horse forward. She can feel Tyrion’s eyes on her, but she doesn’t look over. There was something very strange about that interaction, as if something was not quite right. There’s an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach; and for a moment, she considers stopping to confer with her men on whether this is actually a good idea. But they’ve already passed through the archway and the thick, steel portcullis bangs shut behind them. 

There is no going back now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited to continue this! I just love these characters so much! Tyrion and Sansa own my heart, my favorite couple on GOT.  
> Next chapter we get to see just how crazy Aunt Lysa can get. I also had so much fun making Sweet Robin a girl and having her marry Joffrey. I just having so much fun with all of this! 
> 
> Thank you all for your lovely comments! Thanks for reading.


	6. Always Pays His Debts

It’s a long winding ride up the mountain. Tyrion rides behind Lady Sansa and her captain, Jarak, who follow the Knights of the Vale up the narrow, winding path up the mountain; to the Keep in the clouds. 

A long journey, up steep staircases, echoing chambers filled with relics, and long corridors that only lead to more corridors. By the time they’ve reached the great double doors of brass and oak, the entrance to the Throne Room, Tyrion has completely lost track of where entered in or where they’ve been. 

The Knights halt and two of the men take positions on either side of the doorway, coming to attention. Sir Vardis shoots Lady Sansa a glance, his eyes wandering for a split second to Tyrion, who stands behind her, then places both hands on the handles of both doors and pulls. Tyrion is suddenly nervous; and as only he can see from his position, by the way Lady Sansa’s left hand is balled in a fist, clutching the fabric of her cloak, she is too. 

Tyrion is not usually easily impressed, but as they enter the huge chamber, he can’t help but stare. High, domed ceilings. Twin staircases curving up to a tall stone platform with a crude throne of gnarled tree branches and roots. And atop the throne, back poker straight, arms draped with dignity; Lysa Arryn, Lady of the Vale. 

She does not speak as they enter, only watches with a hawk-like gaze, nose and chin held aloft. When they’ve come to a stop below the throne, Lady Sansa hesitates a moment before taking a deep breath and stepping forward. “Aunt Lysa. So good to see you again. I hope you’ve been well and-.”

“I have not been well, child.” Her voice is strong and clear in the echoey chamber. She’s become accustomed to speaking down to people in this open space. “I have not been well for quite some time.” 

And it’s true. Her eyes are ringed with shadows. Her hair, a flowing ruddy brown has begun to grey at the roots. Tyrion recalls seeing her a few times over the years, at celebrations and counsels in King’s Landing. She had always been a slight woman, but now she’s very thin, too thin. 

Lady Sansa is taken aback. “I’m… sorry to hear that.” Licking her lips, she continues. “Aunt Lysa, I’ve come to-.”

Lady Arryn’s attention has wandered. She’s gazing off to side, eyes fixed intently on nothing. “We know why she’s here, don’t we”, she mutters with a soft smile.

Lady Sansa and Jarak exchange glances and after a beat, she dares to ask. “…Sorry?”

With a jerk of her head, Lady Arryn’s attention returns to her niece. “I said, I know why you’re here.” 

“You do?” 

“I just received word. I-.” Suddenly, she freezes mid-sentence, eyes finally falling on Tyrion, who had been doing his best remain unconscious and blend in with the others. Not his greatest strength, perhaps. 

With a great upheaval, Lysa Arryn rises from her throne. Her eyes never leave Tyrion as she does, and he suddenly gets has the urge to start running and get the hell out of this deathtrap in the sky. 

“You”, she breaths, eyes still locked on him. “How could you bring him here?” 

Lady Sansa seems at a loss for words. “I-. Lord Tyrion escorted me here from-.”

“He doesn’t look like a prisoner!”

Still very confused, Sansa glances between Tyrion and her Aunt. “…he’s not a prisoner.”

“Don’t you know?”

“What?”

“That man is a Lannister!” A bony, claw-like hand thrusts forth from beneath her long cloak to point at the small man below. “The Lannisters are our enemies.”  
Tyrion feels as confused as Sansa looks. They weren’t enemies last time he’d checked. 

“My sister and your father rot in one of the Freys’ cells. Even now Ramsey Bolton may be at the gates of Winterfell, and you dare bring him here without my permission? You pollute my home with his presence?” 

Narrowing her eyes, Sansa, again, glances at Tyrion. “I don’t what that has to do with anything.”

“Oh you, naive child!” Again, Lady Lysa’s gaze swivels off to the right, and her eyes fix, almost lovingly, on a patch of air. “Not like my sweet angel, is she darling?” She speaks softly, and then turns a glare on Sansa. “Don’t you know? The Boltons and the Freys and other Houses in the North conspired against your father, to take to North by force. But who crafted the plot? Who is supporting these smaller, simpleminded Houses?”

Her sneer is wide and gleeful. “None other than the family of that man! The Lannisters!” 

“What?!” Tyrion blurts out! 

“What?” Sansa exclaims at the same time. 

“I just received word that the Lannisters are conspiring with and supporting the Boltons and Freys.”

“Word?” Tyrion questions, tired of being left out of the conversation. “From your husband?” 

“No, Imp! From a reliable source…” And Lady Arryn’s eyes grow wistful for a moment. 

Tyrion sighs and swipes a hand across his brow. “My Lady, you must be mistaken. My family had nothing to do with this. What interest would they have in taking down the Warden of the North? King Robert is Ned Stark’s oldest and dearest friend. The Lannisters have no quarrels with the Starks.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Fists clench at her sides just as tightly as her teeth grind together in a snarl. 

“No. I’m merely saying, you must have been misinformed. My brother, Jaime, Lord of House Lannister would never do something like this. And, though it’s a more plausible, I don’t believe Cersei would either. It’s just not logical.” 

But it appears logic is not one of Lady Arryn’s strengths. 

“Ugh.” Lysa makes a sound of frustration and shakes her head. Her cloak whips as she turns her back on them all. For a long moment she seems to be trying to regain composure. Tyrion can hear her muttering and mumbling to herself. Then she spins back round and points the finger of judgement at Sansa. “I cannot believe you brought him here!”

Sansa still seems a bit shocked by the news, trying to make sense of it all. She shakes her head. “I had no reason not to.”

“He’s a Lannister!” 

For the sake of all the gods! “So, what if I am?” Tyrion will not let this mad woman talk this way about his House and turn his only allies against him. 

“I don’t allow Lannisters in my home!” The Lady spits, barely able to look at him.

“I assume there’s at least one you’d let inside. I can’t imagine you’d turn away your only daughter. She’s a Lannister now too, remember? Or did you forget?” 

“Don’t you dare speak about my daughter! You are not worthy to even say her name. She is not a Lannister!” And then softer, eyes losing focus. “You’re not one of them. Those horrible monsters, taking you away from me! Stealing you away to that disgusting, immoral city!” 

This woman is clearly insane. Tyrion knows it, and he can see that Sansa also knows it; just by the way she’s starring at her aunt. Surely, she won’t listen to this lunatic. 

But Sansa’s face is uncertain. She seems to be weighing all this new information carefully beneath those long red locks. 

“Your cousin has done a very bad thing, Robyn. A very bad thing.” Lysa’s voice as returned to her silky, patronizing, sneer. “She has brought the bad man into our home.” 

Sansa’s eyes dart nervously between her men, her aunt, and Tyrion. The look in her eyes says, Tyrion’s not the only one who wants to run away. 

In an outburst, Tyrion throws his hands up in the air in exasperation. He’s had just about enough of this! “My Lady, don’t you think I would know if my family were conspiring against the Starks?”

He realizes a moment too late that he’s fallen into her trap; for then, a wicked grin slithers across her lips. “Yes. I think you would.” Tyrion’s heart sinks.  
“You went to Winterfell with the purpose to spy on them. You locked my sister and Ned Stark up in a dungeon.” 

Bloody seven hells! 

“I did that too, did I? Along with masterminding the entire plot and leading the Bolton army myself. I’ve been a very busy man.” 

“Watch your tongue!” Lady Arryn shouts, but Tyrion is already turning to Sansa. 

“My Lady”, he tries to speak softly so her aunt can’t hear. “I promise I had nothing to do with this.” He wants to reach out and take her hand, to reassure her, but he’s not so bold. “Why would I go to Winterfell, putting myself in harm’s way, and then come here, knowing they would find me out, if I knew this was going to happen? That would be the most idiotic and dangerous thing I could do.” He insists. You must believe me!” 

She’s still uncertain, her gaze darting between his eyes, searching. She bites her lip and swallows hard.

“Lady Sansa, look at her. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about!” Sansa’s eyes flicker up towards the frenzied woman, who is pacing the small dais and glaring daggers down at them. 

“What’s that?” Lysa suddenly says, gaze turning back to the patch of nothing. “Oh… You’re right.” Her face turns purely devious with a languid, dreamy smile to match. “Sir Vardis, open the Moondoor.”

The Knight moves into the shadows where a large wheel is set into the wall. And with a great groaning and grinding, a hole Tyrion had not noticed until now, ringed by a short wall, opens to reveal a thousand-foot drop to the ground far, far below. Tyrion’s eyes as well as his jaw, fall open in awe. Thin wispy patches of white float between them and surface of the earth. They are above even the clouds here. 

Lady Arryn is still starring down at Tyrion, but she’s not talking to him anymore. “Oooh, you want to make the bad man fly?” She coos. “Well, I want to make him fly too.” 

Tyrion feels a wave of fear roll through his insides, but no, this is not the time lose his head. He is not getting tossed out of that Moondoor; not today! This is certainly not how he’d planned to die. There isn’t a glass of wine in sight! 

Trying to control his breathing, Tyrion backs several steps away from the hole that had just formed in the floor. He can’t stop starring at it, at the tiny trees and boulders, so far away they’re barely visible. He can only imagine what it would do to his body, to hit from this height, but he’d be dead long before then. Isn’t that what they always say; ‘It’s not the fall that kills you’? Not so with this drop. His heart would stop from terror long before he reached the bottom. 

Sansa rips her gaze away from new gaping, mouth in the floor and then up at her aunt, who sits gracefully back in her throne. With an unsettling grin, Lysa’s voice turns small and childlike. “I want to make the bad little baby man fly.” 

Decision suddenly hardening Sansa’s features, her hands close into fists. “No. This man is not going to fly today. He came here with me. I will not see him harmed, not before he’s had a trial.”

The two; niece and aunt, stare one another down, eyes locked for what seems like a very long time. But Sansa is resolute, unmoving, and eventually, Lysa yields.  
“Fine…” Her aunt huffs. “Sir Vardis, my niece’s guest is weary. Take him below so he can rest. Introduce him to Mord.”

“So, I’m your prisoner now?” Tyrion asks, backing away as the tall Knight starts towards him. “You can’t do that!” 

“I can and I will.”

“Actually”, the captain of Tyrion’s guard, Anton, suddenly steps forward, placing himself between Sir Vardis and the dwarf. “I can’t let you do that. We are sworn to protect Lord Tyrion, and we will do our duty.” The other guards whirl into position, making a circle around Tyrion and drawing their swords. 

Anton glances over his shoulder to flash Tyrion a mischievous grin. “Lord Jaime would have me skinned alive if I let some crazy woman, wearing a pair of old drapes, bring any harm to his little brother.” 

Tyrion’s eyes sweep the area; the small cluster of men around him, Sansa’s men standing off to the side, removed and appart, and the Knights who have drawn their own swords to meet them. This is not going to end well. He’d better put an end to it before anyone gets killed for no reason. He’s about to say something, to stop them, when one of the younger Lannister men attacks without being ordered, and the others have no choice but to follow his lead. 

Covering his head with his arms, Tyrion makes himself as small as possible, trying to avoid getting killed by accident as chaos breaks out around him. 

The fight doesn’t last long. These are noble, highborn, Knights, trained since boyhood; while his men were only a crew of Lannister foot soldiers. They never stood a chance. 

Tyrion feels a hot spray of blood across his front, painting his hand red and splattering across his cheek, followed by gurgle and a moan. Then the last solider falls to the ground at Tyrion’s feet. Through a gap in his fingers, he sees the face of the captain, Anton, starring up at him… starring into nothing. 

Arms falling away, he looks up and finds his entire guard dead around him, and only one of the Knights injured. Taking a deep breath, he lifts his chin and meets Lysa’s cold stare. Victory shines in her smile. She nods to Sir Vardis, and Tyrion obediently holds out his hands to be shackled. 

As the Knight guides him out, Tyrion catches Sansa’s eye. He tries to send her a silent plea, but she looks away quickly, standing by as he’s led away to the dungeon. 

…

“Was they really necessary?” Sansa can barely keep the disgust and disappointment out of her voice, but her tone is still dark. 

“Oh, Sansa…” Suddenly, her aunt’s whole demeanor has changed. She smiles lovingly, and patronizingly, down at her niece and holds out her arms in a welcoming gesture. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it him anymore. He’s a Lannister.”

“But you didn’t have to kill them.” 

“They left me no choice.” For a moment her eyes fall one the bodies below and they little streams of blood running down the cracks in the floor and out the Moondoor. “But you let me take care of that mess.” Aunt Lysa lifts her skirts and hurries down the curved staircase to meet Sansa on the open floor. 

“My dear Sansa.” Before she has a chance to back away, Aunt Lysa reaches out and takes her niece’s face between her hands and leans her forehead against Sansa’s. “My own flesh and blood.” Her breath, rank and smelling of old fruit, is hot on Sansa’s face. 

After many more seconds of this than is acceptable, Sansa clears her throat and pulls away. It talks some effort. Probably best to put as much distance between them as possible, so she takes several steps backward. Just to be safe... 

Aunt Lysa doesn’t seem to have noticed Sansa’s discomfort, barreling onward. “I hope you were safe on your journey here. It’s getting more and more dangerous traveling the King’s Road, what with the Mountain Men running rampant in the hills.” 

“Yes. No trouble came to us on the way here. I suppose we were lucky.”

Aunt Lysa scoffs, waving a dismissive hand. “I can’t believe you had to come all this way with that vile little monster. He didn’t try to force himself on you, did he?”  
Sansa didn’t think anything her aunt did could surprise her after the show she’d just put on, but she’s taken aback. Frowning, she shakes her head. “No. Of course not. We never-.” 

“Good!” Lysa snaps. “That’s one blessing at least.” Her hand darts out to smooth a lock of Sansa’s hair. “Now, lets see about getting you settled in your chambers. You’ll want a new gown for the feast tonight, no doubt, and a-.” 

“Aunt Lysa.” Sansa sharply cuts her off, sidestepping the hand that’s still petting at her hair. “I’m not here for a feast, or for a new gown. I came here because we need your help.” 

“Of course, Dear. We’ll talk about that after the feast.”

Again, Sansa has to bat away the hand as it makes another attempt at latching onto her. “We don’t have time for a feast. The Bolton Army could arrive at Winterfell any day now. There isn’t a moment to lose.”

“Ooooh.” Aunt Lysa releases a long groan. “Sansa, I’m really not in the mood for his discussion right now. You smell horrid and your dress is frightful sight. Go clean yourself up, and then we’ll talk.” 

But Sansa doesn’t budge. “I don’t care what I look like, or what I smell like. Only one thing matters right now, and that is, rescuing my family. I’m sorry, but we must discus this immediately.”

The two women hold one another’s gaze for a long moment. Aunt Lysa is stubborn, but Sansa has far more resolve. Finally, Lysa sighs. “Very well.” She clasps her hands before her and turns her back on her niece, pacing over to the Moondoor to gaze out of it. “You may begin.” 

Sansa joins her at the edge. This is going to difficult, but Sansa tries her best. In measured, precise tone, she explains the situation as thoroughly as she possibly can, lying out the facts; how few men they have, how low their chance of victory.

When she’s finished, she hesitantly reaches out to rest a hand on her aunt’s arm, urging Lysa to face her. “Aunt Lysa, we need your help. As you can clearly see, the North is going to fall, without my father’s leadership and without enough troops. The Boltons and the Freys will rule the North. We cannot let this come happen. We need you to send your army to fight for the Starks, to stand beside your family in our time of greatest need.” Sansa searches her aunts impassive face, trying to guess what she’s thinking. 

“Rob sent specifically sent me here to ask for your help. He knew this was too important to leave to someone outside the family. In the name of Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, and in the name of Catelyn Tully- your sister- I beg you to send an army with me back to Winterfell.” 

Aunt Lysa, who has been silent and unresponsive the entire time, fixes her eyes on Sansa’s. She seems to be considering, and for several moments, Sansa holds her breath, waiting. Finally, Lysa’s face softens, and gives her niece a reassuring smile. With a breath of relief, Sansa allows her aunt to pull her into a hug. 

“Oh, Sansa”, Aunt Lysa breathes into her ear. “If you had only married Joffrey, as you were supposed to, my beautiful Robyn would never have been taken away from me.” 

Her heart freezes. Sansa’s body goes ridged in her aunt’s embrace. Very slowly, she pulls away, meeting her aunt’s eyes. They are cold as ice, but her smile and her voice are still warm, and sickly sweet. 

“What?”

“In fact, if you had just done what you were supposed to, none of this would have happened.” 

Sansa merely stares at her. Over the past weeks she’s been trying to convince herself that the guilt she felt was unwarranted, but now her own aunt is standing here, accusing her of being the source of all their problems. 

“This isn’t my fault.” She tries to speak sternly, but there’s a lack of conviction behind her words. 

“Tell that to mother and father, if you ever see them again, alive.”

Sansa’s fists are clenched at her sides, anger, disappointment, and worry swirling hot in her belly. “Does this mean you’re refusing to help us?” 

With a roll of her eyes, Lysa shakes her head, as if in disappointment. “Did you really believe I would send my army all the way to Winterfell to be slaughtered? I have my own problems; my daughter forced into bed of that demon child, my husband far away in the capital, the Hill Tribes at our very gates. What do you think they would do if there was no longer an army to protect the Eyrie? They have always wanted to take the Vale back for themselves and that would the perfect opportunity.” As her voice grows louder, also rising in pitch, until she’s nearly squealing.

“Of course, I’m not going to let my armies leave my side, especially for such a lost cause! Your family saved you from Joffrey, but they stood by and let that brute, Robert, take my baby from my arms. I don’t owe your family anything.” 

She sees that Sansa is getting angry, about to protest. So, she lifts a finger and presses it to Sansa’s lips, silencing her. “I don’t owe you. But… I am merciful, and because of my tender heart, I welcome you into my home and care for you like you were my child.” 

Removing her finger, she strokes the side of Sansa’s hair and pats her shoulder. “Now, now. Dry those eyes. Perhaps your brother will triumph after all. For now, though, I’ve been gracious enough to pan a feast in your honor.” There’s that sweet, motherly tone again, but there in also a warning in her voice. 

Don’t make me do something I’ll regret. I’ve already killed men right in front of you. I almost made the little bad man fly. What else might I do?

She’s raging, hot beneath her skin, but Sansa employs all her willpower to keep her face neutral. Not only is her aunt mad; she’s also dangerous. And Sansa is going to have to be very careful, if she wants to leave this place in one piece. Which she must! Rob and Rickon are counting on her.

“Thank you, Aunt Lysa.”

“Of course, dear. There’s a good girl… Now, go and get washed up. There’ll be a fresh gown laid out for you when you’re finished bathing. Tonight, I’ve planned all your favorites: turtle stew, roasted duck, honey-baked carrots, pigeon pie. And, of course, lemon cakes!” 

“Thank you, Aunt Lysa.” Sansa knows she should say more, but it’s all she can manage. 

…

When Tyrion had heard Lady Arryn ordering him sent below, he had imagined some dark hole, deep inside the mountain. What he hadn’t imagined was this: a stone room with a curved ceiling and three walls with a slanted floor. The good news was that there was plenty of light and fresh air. The bad news was, this was the result of no forth wall and a straight droop down the side of sheer cliff to the valley floor, far below. 

No, this was not what he’d envisioned, through perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised after seeing Lysa Arryn’s favorite execution device. On the other hand, Mord; he had been exactly what Tyrion had thought he’d be. 

The short, pudgy bald man had immediately seized him from Ser Vardis’s hands and without even stopping to say hello, had hauled Tyrion in- or rather out- to his new cell. 

“You go’t sleep little dwarf man.” Tyrion is thrown to the floor of his cell with a grunt. His new jailer, Mord, chuckles in delight. 

Tyrion rolls over just in time to see the small man grin through a set of mossy blackened teeth. “Sleep good, little dwarf man.” Then the door slams shut with a great, resounding bang. 

Shakily Tyrion rises to his feet, taking in the view from his new lodging. This is wrong! This is all gone terribly wrong! Where on earth could Lysa Arryn gotten the idea that the Lannister were supporting the Freys and Boltons? It must be a figment of her deteriorating mind because Tyrion knows Jaime had nothing to do with what had happened! Tyrion had been as surprised at Rob Stark to hear the news. He and Jaime had been trying to forge an alliance with the Starks, had even been prepared to propose marriage. There’s no way they would stage an attack on Lord and Lady Stark. 

Tyrion begins to pace, his mind racing. The seconds stretch into minutes and then into what feels like hours, though in reality Tyrion had no idea how much time had passed before he begins to pound on the ancient steel door. “Mord!” He yells. “Mord! Mord!” 

There’s a clank of metal and then the door flies open. The pudgy little man busts through a second later, nearly knocking Tyrion off his feet as he wields a thick, leather club. Raining down surprising painful blows, Mord forces Tyrion to very edge of drop-off. “Dwarf man making noise!” 

Pressing himself to wall beside the cliff, Tyrion tries not to panic. “Listen, Mord. How would you like to be rich?”

Mord doesn’t even pause to think it over. “Dwarf man still making noise.” He says, whacking Tyrion once again.

Ouch! Tyrion winces and cradles his bruised arm to his chest. “My family is rich, very rich. Gold! I’m prepared to give you lots of gold!” 

At the mention of gold, the bald man’s greedy eyes light up. Before Tyrion knows what’s happening, Mord is patting him down, searching for this promised gold. His face turns savage when he finds none. 

“No gold.” WHACK! 

Tyrion sighs in exasperation. “Well, I don’t have it here”, he exclaims and then flinches back against the wall in anticipation of another strike. 

“No gold!” 

Mord has had quite enough of this. He whacks Tyrion one more time for good measure, then stalks back to the doorway. “Fuck off.”

“Wait!” The door has almost closed behind him, when Tyrion rushes after him. “The gold is here! When they took me prisoner, they took my purse. But the gold is still mine.”

Slowly, the door creeks back open and the jailer eyes Tyrion suspiciously. “Where?”

“I don’t know exactly. I won’t know until you free me.”

Whack! Whack! Mord rains down blows a series of very well aimed blows and Tyrion crumples beneath them. 

“You want free?” Mord asks simply. “There.” He points to the drop-off only a few feet away. Tyrion wonders how many have made up their minds to leave this place, one way or the other.

“Listen to me.” He says, realizing he’s better hurry up and get to the point. “Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘Rich as a Lannister?”

Mord pauses, club raised. He narrows his eyes as his tiny brain tries to comprehend the words coming out of the dwarf’s mouth. Then a tiny light of recognition flickers in the emptiness of his eyes. 

“Ah”, Tyrion nods and points at the pudgy man. Even a man like this, all the way out in the vale, has heard of the Lannisters. “Of course, you have. You’re a smart man. You know who the Lannisters are. I am a Lannister. Tyrion, son of Tywin. And of course, you also know the phrase, ‘A Lannister always pays his debts’.  
Mord seems transfixed my Tyrion’s words. He stares down blankly. 

At least he’s not hitting me anymore. 

“If you deliver a message from me to Lady Sansa Stark, I will be in your debt.” Mord continues to stare, and Tyrion grins. “I will owe you gold… If you deliver the message… and I live, which I very much intend to do.” 

After a moment of hard thinking, the jailer lowers the club to his side.

“What message?”  


…  


The sun is nearly setting, now dim and deep orange, it sits low on the western horizon, its golden light filling the shallow cavern in the rock and into Tyrion’s eyes. 

He sits, up against the wall, in the inner corner of the cell, as far from the edge as possible. And he’d thought the dungeon in King’s Landing was bad. At least they have cots to lay on, buckets to shit in, and a trough to hold water. Here, there’s only a tiny trickle of a stream flowing down a divot in the floor. There’s not a single piece of furniture inside, not even stool to sit on. And, a man could get himself killed trying to shit off the edge of the cliff. 

After they’d escaped the North, Tyrion thought he’d finally escaped the cold, but when the sun has finally set, the frost in the air is enough to set his teeth chattering.  


The night is long and full of strange noises, and Tyrion has much to think about. Does Lady Sansa really think he had anything to do with the attack on her family? It’s absurd; to think someone like himself would have taken the risk and come all the way out here, while he could have stayed at home and watched the whole thing unfurl from a safe distance. It’s so ludicrous, it could only have been devised by a woman as mad as the Lady of House Arryn. 

And yet, Lady Sansa had let them take him. She had stood by while his men were slaughtered, and himself put in chains. Even if she doesn't believe him, could she be so heartless to let him rot in her aunt’s dungeon? She had saved him from the Moondoor… But that doesn’t mean she believes he’s not to blame. Perhaps she’s just waiting to give him an even worse punishment. 

But Sansa is not a fool! Surely, surely, she won’t leave him to die.

Jaime. He wonders what his brother is doing right now. He’s probably curled up in his bed, beyond warm beneath layers and layers of bedclothes. That little son of a whore! He has no idea what an awful predicament his little brother has found himself in. He’s going to get it! The next time he sees Tyrion, if ever, he’s going to be paid back in full for forcing him into this mess. 

And there’s no way to send word. Tyrion’s already used up his only favor. Now, if he dies here, Jaime may never know what happened to him. The thought should be upsetting, but he only finds it a bit ironic. 

Beyond the outline of his tiny cell, the moon is barely visible through a thick cloud-covering. The wind, quick and steady, chases the clouds across the sky and blows right into the hole in the side of the mountain. Its so cold, so bitterly cold. Tyrion slumps over onto his side, curling his limbs up as close as they’ll get to his body.  
He has only one last thought before he falls asleep. “At least, if I die from cold in my sleep tonight”, he mutters to himself as he drifts off, “I won’t have to die by Moondoor.” 

…

Wind in his face. Blowing his tousled strands of gold into his eyes. Hair tickling his nose. “Uuuunnn.” A moan. My fingers are cold. Fingers curl and stretch. Where am I? Eyes open to slits as light floods his vision. 

“Ahh!” Tyrion wakes with a jolt, faced with nothing but open air as he lies on the edge of a cliff, arm hanging over the side. He must have rolled down the floor during the night. Gasping and shaking he carefully backs away from the edge, sinking back to the ground, only when his back is safely against the wall. 

His eyes have just slid closed again when there’s a clinking, grinding commotion on the other side of the door. They fly open again. Maybe Mord is bringing him breakfast. At the thought, his stomach rumbles and he climbs to his feet. 

“Hurry up, Mord. I’m hungry!” He makes his way expectantly towards the door. 

It springs open without warning and nearly hits him in the face. Tyrion jumps back, shielding his nose, and when he looks back up, its not Mord who is standing in the doorway.

“Sansa…” 

Lady Sansa grins, her red hair glowing in the soft morning light. She glances around the cell, taking in the treacherous view. 

“Lady Sansa, please, listen to me. I had nothing to do with what happened to your parents. My brother and I have never wished ill upon your family. It’s a terrible crime what has been done to you, and you must believe me when I say we had nothing to do with it!” 

“I know.” She says plainly, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the word.

A pause, in which Tyrion stares at her, mouth hanging open. “…you know?”

“Yes”, she replies, shaking her head dismissively. “Just as you said in your message; you would have to be a complete idiot to come here if you knew what was coming.” She grins at the ridiculous face he’s making. “And, you are most certainly not a complete idiot.”

A wave of sweet, fresh relief floods through him… and just the tiniest bit of pride at her words. 

“Sansa Stark!”

“I know. Don’t let it go to your head.” 

Tyrion chuckles and they share a genuine smile. She looks especially nice this morning; having had a bath and now wearing dress of muted purple. He can only imagine how he looks, but he can’t bother to care. What a sight for a sore eyes she is! He can’t take them off her…

Suddenly there’s a muffled noise from behind the door. Sansa’s face grows serious again. “They’re coming.” She lowers her voice so only he can hear. “Trust me, My Lord.”

He’s about to ask what in the seven hells she’s talking about, but at that very moment, the door bangs open and Sir Vadis appears on the other side. “Time to go.”  


Just a few minutes later, they find themselves standing in the throne room once again.

Lady Arryn sits high and above them all, on her wooden throne. She gazes down her hawkish nose at Tyrion and Sansa, as they stand before her. 

“Well Imp. Its time for you to confess your crimes. You have the right to a trial, so I suggest you take this opportunity to meet your gods as an honest man.”

Tyrion is about to open his mouth, to begin, when Sansa steps up beside him. He watches as she raises her chin and confidently meets her aunts piercing eyes.  


“No, Aunt Lysa. There will be no trial.”

All the lords and ladies of the Vale, who have gathered to witness the trial of the famed son of Tywin Lannister, gasp and mutter. Lysa Arryn opens her mouth to protest but Sansa hurriedly continues. 

“It is not you this traitor has wronged. It is my family.” Lysa’s mouth snaps shut like a fish. “Its is not you who should deliver the judgment or the punishment. That right belongs to the Lord of House Stark.” Tyrion is starring at her, but she doesn’t acknowledge him. 

Trust you? So much for that!

“I ask that you let me take him as my prisoner and give him to my brother, Rob. He will decide what will happen to Lord Tyrion. My brother is a merciful man, but he is also a just one. He will see that this man receives the punishment he deserves.”

Then she waits. The hall is silent as the Lady of the Vale ponders this proposal. It would not paint her in a favorable light before her people, if she denies the Starks the vengeance they deserve. 

Finally, she lifts her head from where it had been resting on her hand. “And when do you intend on leaving?”

“As soon possible.” 

Aunt Lysa gives a great, disappointed sigh. “Very well.” She waves a dismissive hand in her niece’s direction. “Go on then. And take the Imp with you. What do I care?”  


Grin spreading across her lips, Sansa curtsies deeply and then turns to go, nodding for Jarak to take hold of Tyrion’s shackles. 

“Sansa.”

She freezes mid-step, then turns back round. Waits. 

Lysa rises from her throne and clasps her hands. “I hope for yours and your mother’s sake that your army wins. I would be a shame for Starks to begin losing their heads.”

Sansa merely smirks. She has no more use for her aunt’s meaningless words. 

“Thank you, Aunt Lysa.” Then she turns on her heel and leads her men out the double doors, not looking back. 

As they walk by Sir Vardis, Tyrion jerks Jarak to a stop. “I believe you have something of mine.”

Vardis glances to his Lady and then at Jarak, who’s watching closely. Tyrion raises an eyebrow and, reluctantly, Sir Vardis pulls out the small sack of gold.  
As soon as it’s in Tyrion’s hand, he’s tossing it; to the pudgy bald man standing in the back of the room. “There you are, Mord.”

Jarak urges him on and the small procession follows Lady Stark out of the Great Hall. 

“A Lannister always pays his debts.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, gotta love crazy Aunt Lysa! She ended up being even crazier than I'd planned. What can I say; it felt right.   
> I had so much fun merging the two visits to the Vale (Tyrion and Catelyn Stark & Sansa and Littlefinger) we get in the show into one. It is interesting that they both end of visiting there -and they're the only ones- even though its a very different times in their stories. It worked out almost too perfectly for this story! 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! I really do appreciating hearing all your thoughts!
> 
> I'm also in the midst of writing another alternate version of events Tyrion/Sansa fic called, "In A Coat of Gold". If you like this fic, consider checking it out!


	7. To Trust A Lion

She doesn’t speak throughout their entire trip down the mountain. She rides at the front of the procession, while Tyrion takes up the rear, just behind his new jailer, Jarak. Hands still bound by the tight metal cuffs; he struggles to stay upright on the back of his horse as they wind down the steep, narrow trail into the gully below. 

He’d expected her to explain, or at least give him a look of reassurance. But nothing. Sansa rides, sitting tall in her saddle, at the head of the pack, and doesn’t even acknowledge him. 

After they’ve made it safely through the Bloody Gate and to the end of the valley, Sansa turns to cast one last look on the Eyrie, looming at their backs like a great sulking monster. It’s not the same ethereal castle in the clouds that it had been when they’d first laid eyes on it. No longer evoking a majestic awe, it feels menacing, like a dream that leaves you in a cold sweat. 

The Knights watch from the crest of the hill above the gate, and the lines of soldiers watch from the walls of the ravine. Always watching… It’s a reminder they still aren’t safe. 

Only when, at last, they’ve turned the corner and left the valley, the bloody gate, and the Knights of the Vale behind, does Sansa dare speak. 

“Stop here.”

The group comes to a halt and Sansa gives Jarak a single nod. He leads Tyrion’s horse over towards her and, without hesitation, dismounts and plucks Tyrion from the horse’s back. 

“Ah!” Tyrion feels a sudden rush of fear, as Jarak sets him- a little roughly- on his feet. He waits uncertainly, gaze shifting between Sansa and her captain.  
What is going on… They’re making him very nervous. 

Face still withdrawn, she nods again; and Jarak turns on Tyrion. He flinches, bracing himself for a blow; for a curse. But Jarak merely pulls a key from his belt and unlocks his shackles. 

And oh, sweet Mother of mercy…

A sigh of relief escapes Tyrion’s lips as the chains fall to the grass; not just the relief of finally being freed from the cumbersome bindings, but the relief that he’s her prisoner, that she believed him. 

Then something even more unexpected happens; she grins. She actually grins, a popper, real smile, with all the teeth.

“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” He shakes his head with mock disapproval. “Shame on you.”

“I did it for your own good”, she insists, eyes bright with mischief, “She never would have let you leave otherwise. The fact that I found it the tiniest bit enjoyable is entirely irrelevant.” 

Tyrion crosses his arms, continuing to shake his head. “Oh really?”

Barely holding herself together, biting her lip and snickering, she stifles a soft chuckle behind her hand. “You should have seen the look on your face!” 

At that, Tyrion can’t help but smile himself. Through he does make sure to retain a bit of his wounded look as well. 

“You haven’t a clue how relieved I am. I was almost began to believe you were going to take me back to Winterfell and feed me to your wolves.” 

Sansa snorts at that, but she motions towards his horse. “Come on. We’d better get moving.” 

It feels good to be back on the road again, as surprising as that is. But there’s something comforting about riding along beside Sansa, the open tail before them, and the open sky above. 

“But where are we going?” He asks, turning in his saddle to face her. 

Her eyes, squinting in the bight mid-morning sunlight, remain fixed on the horizon. “Back to Winterfell, of course. Rob and Rickon as still defending the castle and we still need to get my mother and father back.”

“Winterfell?!” Yanking the reins, he pulls his horse up short and stares at her. “You must be joking. 

“I certainly am not.”

“Sansa.” Tyrion trots over and guides his horse into her path, forcing her to stop. “The castle is under siege. We can’t go there. It’s far too dangerous.”

“That is my home!” Her hangs grip the rains too tightly and she’s glares at him. “I can’t just sit by and let my people and my family die!”

“What good would that do? You’d only get yourself killed, and your brothers would no better off!” 

“I can’t do nothing!” Sansa yells, throwing up her arms in frustration. “I can’t just do nothing.” After a moment, she clears her throat and eyes him. “I suppose you have a better idea.”

“I do, in fact.” He confirms, and she rolls her eyes. But he isn’t paying attention. 

“We’re so far away from Winterfell, it will take us over two weeks to get back. By that time, it won’t matter what we do, because it will likely be over one way or the other. We’re much closer to Casterly Rock and Lannisport. I say, we go to Casterly Rock, talk to Jaime, and ask him to bring Lannister troops to come to your brother’s aid. He’s the one whose been pushing for an alliance. This would be the perfect opportunity to prove that he’s serious about it. He’ll lead an army back North, and even if Rob has lost the castle, they’ll just regroup and take it back.”

Sansa began shaking her head the moment the words “Casterly Rock” were out of his mouth, and she hasn’t stopped. “No way! You think if I can’t convince my own aunt to help us, some stranger will risk sending an entire army all the way across the continent for me?”

“Yes. I’ve met your aunt.”

She bites her lip, turning the pink to deep red, and turns away to glare off into the distance. “There’s no way I’m going to waste several days riding down to Casterly Rock, just to have to turn around and go back. Not a chance! Look, I don’t know your brother, I don’t have any reason to trust him, and I don’t have any time to spare.” 

Sighing and muttering under his breath, Tyrion urges his horse faster to catch up with her quickened pace. He pulls up along side her and tries to get her to look at him. 

“Sansa! Even if there’s a chance, wouldn’t that be worth it? You have no other course of action. If we go back to Winterfell, we might all die. And I don’t intend to do that!” 

She turns on him sharply, fixing him with a withering look. “Would you rather us leave you here alone in the middle of the woods, to find your own way home? If you’re planning to make it to Lannisport before the shadowcats get you, you might want to start walking.” She knows he won’t do it, and she wouldn’t leave him anyway… But she’s worried and angry; at aunt Lysa and Ramsey Bolton, and herself. And at Tyrion, for even suggesting they don’t go immediately go to help Rob.

“My Lady, you know I want to help. But I’m not going to just go along while you walk us right into jaws of the Bolton Army. Your people still need you. If Ramsey Bolton gets your brothers too, you’ll the be only Stark left. Its your duty to stay alive.”

All of a sudden, Sansa yanks on her reigns and forces her horse into his path. She’s seething beneath a stony exterior as she stares him down. “Can you promise me, without a shadow of a doubt, that your brother will give us an army. Give me your solemn oath that he will!”

Silence. He wants to argue, to explain that its not that simple; that in all reality, he can’t promise anything, not even that he’ll be alive tomorrow. But he knows she’s got him… For several long seconds, he holds her gaze, but eventually, his eyes drop. 

Not missing a beat, she wheels her horse back round and rides on. “Then we’re going to Winterfell. End of discussion.”

“She’s right, My Lord”, Jarak says from behind Tyrion. “I don’t trust a Southerner as far as I can throw him, and I don’t want to go anywhere near one of your big cities. That's how Northmen lose their heads. We best stick to what we know; defending our people, no matter the cost.” He nods as Sansa turns to shoot him a thankful look. “And, we can still help. We can recruit good honest Northerners along the way. The North remembers, and we will fight for the Starks.”

Frustration builds inside until it feels like he’ll burst. But there’s no use arguing. A northerner is nothing of not stubborn, and they don’t think logically or strategically. Its all honor and duty and dying in a blaze of glory. There’s no reasoning with them. 

Tyrion huffs and then nudges his heels into his horse’s sides, trotting to keep up. 

“At least, let me send Jaime a raven when we get to the next town. He can send someone to get me before we cross back into the North. And, I’ll ask him to send as many men as he can spare. Even if he won’t bring an army himself, surely, he’ll send some sort of help.” 

Hesitating, Sansa gnaws at her bottom lip, then casts Jarak an uncertain look.

“What harm could it do?”

Another long pause, then she finally nods. “Fine. You can send it once we reach the nearest village. But we’re not going to wait for a response.”

…

They’ve been traveling in silence for some time now, the leaves overhead casting down flickering, intermittent shadows as the wind sweeps through the foliage. The shade is a restbit from the hot sun, and the wind cools the dampness that has collected at the back of necks and under the arms. 

Beside him, Sansa rides along with head tilted back and her eyes half closed, relaxation smoothing her features and releasing the tension in her back and shoulders. Tyrion glances over and watches for a few moments, as the alternating shadows and sunlight ripple across her skin and the sun sets her amber hair to a shining blaze.  
Noticing his attention fixed on her, she meets his gaze, but he quickly looks away. 

“What”, she demands.

“Nothing.”

Sansa raises an eyebrow.

“I just…” He clears his throat and pretends to be busy with his reigns. “I just… I suppose I should thank you. You did save my life.” He chuckles at how dramatic it sounds. “I know it must have been hard to give up the perfect opportunity to get rid of me.” 

They exchange wry smiles. 

“Yes. It was quite difficult”, she agrees, eyes sparkling with humor. “It was nearly too good to pass up. But I didn’t think it would be wise to make an enemy of Jaime Lannister. If everything you say about him is true, I would not want to come between him and his brother.” 

“Probably a smart move.” 

“Yes.” Brushing strands of windblown hair from her face, she sighs, brow creasing in a frown. “I never would have believed I’d trust a Lannister over my own blood, but my Aunt… she’s gone truly mad. I knew she had changed, but I didn’t know how bad it had gotten. Otherwise, I never would have come.” Gritting her teeth together, she shakes her head in disappointment. “I suppose this entire trip was a waste.” 

Tyrion studies her disturbed expression. He knows just how heavily it all weighing on her, with the fate of her family hanging in the balance. This just adds more weight to the guilt pressing down on her shoulders. 

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” He tries to sound optimistic. “There’s a good chance Jaime will want to help when he gets my letter. And, who knows, perhaps your brother was able to gather enough troops from the other Northern Houses.” 

The corner of his mouth quirks. “You never know; the victory might have already been won by the time you arrive at the gates of Winterfell.” 

Reluctantly, she shoots him a good-natured smile, then begins rummaging around in one of the bags hanging from her saddle. “Speaking of my aunt; that reminds me…” She pulls out a small object, wrapped in a weathered cloth. 

“When we went to collect the horses and the rest of our things, I just happened to notice… Well, I couldn’t bring the whole thing, because it was far too heavy, but I thought you should have at least one for the trip back.” Tyrion narrows his eyes and cocks his head, watching as she begins to unwrap the cloth. Then realization dawns. 

No… She didn’t…

“Wouldn’t want you to get too bored and start talking nonstop.” Finally, she tugs the cloth away and, a little awkwardly, thrusts the object out towards him.

Tyrion can’t help it; he gasps in surprise and delight. It a book, his book, the one he’d been right in the middle of reading. He’d been so happy to alive and out of that place, that he’d hadn’t been the least bit concerned about a few lost books… And yet, she’d rescued it anyway. 

“I knew it would drive you crazy not knowing the ending.” 

They both stare down at the book in her hand, until, gingerly, Tyrion takes it from her and lovingly tucks it in the crook of his arm. He tries to meet her eyes, but she hurriedly glances away, face reddening just the tiniest bit. 

“Thank you, Sansa.” And it’s a truly genuine smile that beams across his face. “I knew it. You’re not so cold-hearted after all.” 

“Well…” Clearing her throat, her eyes flit to his before fixing on the trail ahead. “Don’t tell anybody. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.” 

“And speaking of”, she suddenly twists in her seat to look at him, “Did you really give that jailer man your entire purse of gold just because of that old saying your family has?”

“Hold on.” Tyrion holds up his hands and also turns to face her. “It’s not just an old saying. It’s the phrase we Lannisters are most associated with.”

“I thought your House Words were, ‘Hear Me Roar’.”

“They are. But that’s not what strikes fear into the hearts of our enemy’s or ensures us any manner of loan or favor.” He explains, getting bit worked up. “Our family has worked hard on building up a reputation over centuries. When a Lannister says he owes you a debt, you know it will be paid in full.”

Sighing, Sansa shakes her head. Must be difficult to understand for someone whose moto is, ‘Winter is Coming’. Whatever that means… 

“That gold could have come in useful. You couldn’t have just left, or waited until you got back to see that he was paid?”

“No!” Immediately he dismisses the idea. “You see, it only works if you actually do keep your word. If you don’t pay your debts, you won’t have any debts, so you can’t pay them.” 

A long pause. “What?”

“Never mind.” He waves hand. “It doesn’t matter anyway. There’s lots more where that came from. I have more gold in my vault in Casterly Rock than I could spend in a lifetime…” He suddenly frowns and makes a sour expression. “…and more wine.” Throwing his head back, he groans. “Bloody gods! I miss my wine cellar.”

“And I do miss Casterly Rock…” Sansa watches as his eyes grow wistful. “Have you never been?”

“No. I’ve only been that far south once, and it was straight to King’s Landing and back.” 

“Yes, of course. I would have remembered.” Tyrion’s eyes are very far away. “You should see it; the light from the windows glittering on the bay below, the halls carved from the Rock itself, the view of the sunset from the highest tower in the keep.”

Leaning forward in her saddle, she studies him. How different their lives have been up until this point; his childhood gold and gilded and cutthroat; hers, quiet and cold and built upon family and honor. If Lord Jaime had not sent him, they never would’ve met. How strange are the ways of fate…

“I doubt I ever will. Once we’ve put everything back to rights, I doubt I’ll ever want to leave the North again.” 

“I suppose not”, he replies. He finds it surprising that the thought hadn’t occurred to him. 

“But”, Sansa interjects, her voice losing its somber tone. “I would like to eventually meet your brother, Jaime.”

All of a sudden, he stops short and stares at her, mouth gaping in mock astonishment. 

“Lady Sansa! You do know… you know he’s a Lannister, right?” 

“Uhh.” Sansa plucks a stick from a branch and throws it at him.

But he only laughs louder, easily dodging the blow. 

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” She asks, and he emphatically shakes his head, no. “Well, don’t worry. If I can put up with you, I should have no trouble with him.”

…

The sun had been covered by a blanket of thick, grey clouds. The relief and high spirits from earlier in the day have worn away and the realization that there’s going to be weeks more of the same; the same sale food, same rocky ground, same smell of sweaty horse and smell of sweaty self. Tyrion finds himself dreading the days to come. He didn’t get a chance to bathe while at the Eyrie and he’s already so tired. When he gets home, he’s going to get sodding drunk and then sleep for a month! 

The terrain is still rough and rocky. Hills and rock piles and craggy ravens. They haven’t even been traveling a full day yet, and Sansa’s bones are already beginning to ache. Hill after hill, after hill, after hill. She leans forward in the saddle as her horse climbs the hill. She leans back in her saddle as the go down the other side. Every time they crest a hill, Sansa thinks, surely this is the last one; but there’s always another…

Finally, the trail joins a larger road that cuts down the center of a shallow valley. On one side of the road are large piles of boulders where they cleared the path. Sansa exhales in relief as her horse prods along the sandy streambed behind Jarak, who leads the way. 

“Well!” Tyrion breaks the long silence, raising his voice so the whole group can hear. “Only fifteen or so more days to go!” He puts on a wide grin and looks to the others. 

A few of the men actually glare at him, and Sansa hears one of them mutter, “fuck off”, under his breath. Apparently, they don’t share his enthusiasm. She smirks to herself. How could they not?

Tyrion is about to continue his rousing speech, but Jarak suddenly freezes. His eyes dart back and forth, and he cocks his head, raising his hand for silence. 

Everyone is as quiet and still as death. They all remember what happened last time Jarak heard a noise. 

After several heart-pounding moments, Jarak lowers his hand and relaxes. He grins from under his beard, before urging his horse on. “It was nothing. Let’s keep going.”

THUNK!

Out of nowhere, something small and round comes sailing through the air and lodges in the back of Jarak’s skull. A thick, dark spray of blood. 

Sansa whips her head round just in time to see a new wave of projectiles sailing towards them, and several, fully armed wild men jumping out from behind the rocks!  


Jarak’s body slides from his horse, as it whinnies and rears up, bucking into Tyrion’s horse and knocking him to the ground. 

A second later, Sansa is sliding off her horse. Breath coming fast and ragged, mind racing, she ducks down to hide form the rocks sailing in from every direction. A soldier at her side. “My Lady, come with me!” 

Two more men go down, one falling right next to her, his blood splattering across her chest. The soldier takes her arm. They bend over nearly double, weaving through the clump of terrified, kicking horses. 

They’re rushing down from both sides of the gully; dozens of wild men! Sansa glances to the left and to the right. Men, clad in furs and with horns on their heads and spears in their hands, run at them from every side. They’re surrounded! 

Then the first wave hits. Clash! Bang! The sound of metal on metal and flesh being ripped open ring in her ears as they run across the clearing toward the rock piles beyond. 

Suddenly, a man is right in front of her. She screams, trying to backpedal, feet slipping in the sand. The wild man grins with a mouth full of black teeth and raises his spiked weapon with a bloodcurdling yell. “Get back, My Lady!” The soldier shouts, jumping in front of her just in time, and blocking the man’s swing. 

Gasping and sweating, terror rendering her mind useless, she turns and begins to run in the opposite direction. There’s a cry and a thunk, and when Sansa glance’s back, her soldier has fallen and the man who killed him sets his sights on her. She runs then. A scream tears from her lips as she feels a hand fist in the fabric at her back. But a second later, a sword parts head from body, and the hand releases. “Run, My Lady!” The soldier yells. And she does. 

Chaos. She’s still not free of the pack. The butt end of spear strikes her hard in the shoulder and she cries out in pain, hand automatically reaching back to shield the afflicted area. 

Is that blood? I can’t tell. 

BAM! Distracted, Sansa runs straight into the front of a horse who’d just appeared in her path. She goes down hard! Sand sprays into her eyes and her mouth, as her arms take most of the impact. Dazed. Blinking. She can’t see. There’s so much dirt in her eyes! Ouch! 

She’s lying in a pool of someone else’s blood. 

Hooves. A horse stomps on her calf from behind, while another rears just above her. Rolling out of the way just in time, she crawls on all fours out from between the stamping snorting horses. Sand in her eyes; blood covering her front. 

She’s just gotten to her feet, when she trips on someone’s body. Stumbling to regain her footing, reaching out, she nearly walks right into two fighting men. She dives out of the way of the wildly swinging weapons and fists, and as she does, something sharp scraps across her upper back. But she doesn’t dare to look to see what it was. 

Just keep moving! She’s almost to the rockpile. Half running, half crawling. Sweat mixes with dirt, dripping down her forehead, into her eyes. Through her breaths are still loud in her ears, the other sounds have died down around her, and she doesn’t stop to register what that means. She just runs.

She’s made it! Gasping and wheezing, she presses her back to rocks and tries to make herself small against them. There’s someone else at the rockpile too, just around the other side. She’s about to panic, search for a sword or a weapon, when there are suddenly two men fighting almost on top of her. 

Screeching, she tries to shield herself, closing her eyes and flinching back against the sold rock. One of them steps on her foot and she yanks it out of the way, up against her body. 

One man does down with a horrible gurgle. Sansa looks up to find it was the wild man. The soldier takes a moment to catch his breath, then turns to her, extending his hand, to help her up. 

A sword skewers him from behind, right through the gut. Sansa retracts her hand as the she’s met with the point of a of sword instead. Lurching to the side, she narrowly avoids the body and sword falling on top of her. 

There, in his place, stands a wild man. He’s drenched in blood, mouth open in an animalistic snarl, wickedly sharp spear in hand. Breathing. A breath. He’s gasping and spitting blood-tinted saliva, but there’s a wild glee in his eyes. He raises the spear. They’re both screaming. 

Then BANG! A small man- Tyrion- jumps out from behind a boulder, brandishing a thick pointed shield. BANG! He hits the man hard in the gut. The man teeters on his feet and Tyrion sweeps his legs out from under him. 

BANG! He hits the ground, falling on his back, and Tyrion is immediately upon him. He raises the shield and BANG- brings it down on the man’s face. BANG! BANG! BANG! Over and over and over, he strikes the wild man, until his face is no longer a face. 

Sick, wet sounds. Metal against bone. Face taut, jaw clenched with the force of it, he brings the shield down and down again. And Sansa just watches; frozen in her spot against the wall, eyes wide; she stares as, what was once a face, turns to a bloody pulp. 

There is no more noise of fighting. There is no one left to fight. The empty road is scattered with bodies. All the horses have fled. 

Finally, the bloodstained shield falls from Tyrion’s hand. He stands there and they both just stare. 

When he’s regained his breathing, he licks his lips and turns to her. 

“Sansa…”  
Her eyes are still fixed on the body before them.

“Sansa.” His voice is husky and dry. He stumbles the few feet between them and bends over her, concern in his eyes, in his voice. 

Finally, she rips her eyes away, and up to his. They’re blue; dark like a stormy sea. She hadn’t noticed before…

“Are you alright?” 

A blink. She nods. 

Then he extends a hand, still slick with blood. 

“Good. We need to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you're enjoying reading as much as I am writing it! 
> 
> Alright! Now things are really happening. What are your predictions for what'll happen next?


	8. The Ways of Fate

“Sansa.”

He’s speaking to her, but she can’t quite make out his words in the blank, empty space of her mind. They keep whizzing by, blurred and hazy, only to bounce around the empty walls inside, filling her head with white noise, as she stares down at the body of the Wildman who would have killed her if Tyrion hadn’t stopped him. 

“Sansa. Sansa you must get up. We have to go. Right now!”

She blinks. Once. Twice. A breath. 

“Sansa. I know you’ve had a shock, but there’s no time. I wish there was. I wish I could give you a moment to collect yourself, but I can’t!”

His hands on her shoulders, grasping, pinching, urgent. His face is streaked and splattered with blood. 

Just a moment. Just a moment. She can’t breathe. Sansa closes her eyes and then opens them, but her whole world is still focused in on the spear tip, rusted and gory; the one that would have ended her life. Her bones are led inside her arms. It’s not difficult to believe she’ll ever lift them again. That’s fine. No matter, as long as she’ll just be able to sleep…

“Sansa, look at me.” It was not request, though his voice is as gentle as a doe’s. 

Finally, with great effort, she obeys. His brow is low on his forehead, a deep furrow plowed through the thick flesh. His eyes wide and insistent. They hold hers; they command hers to stay. “We have to go.” Even now, though panic is alive behind his eyes, and bobbing in his throat, his voice is still calm and soft. “Everyone else is dead. There’s no one left to protect you.”

That sends a jolt through her. She feels her breath hitch in her chest. 

“If more of them come right now, we will be dead in seconds. We have to get moving. Once we’re far enough away, I promise, you can rest. But right now, we must leave this place.” For a moment, he searches her face. “Alright?”

She licks her lips. Nods. 

His fingers bite into her shoulders as he gives her a little shake. “Alright?”

“Alright.” Its barely more than a whisper, but that’s enough. Tyrion extends a hand, and she allows him to pull her to her feet. She could have sworn there would be pain- hadn’t she been stepped on by a horse- hadn’t she been hit in the back with a spear- but there’s only an electric numbness all throughout her body. 

Unsteady on her feet, Sansa doesn’t let go of Tyrion’s hand. She takes deep breaths until the dizziness passes, then wipes her palms down her dress, which does nothing to clean them. They come away even more bloody, sticky with the gore and dirt, thickening, hardening the fabric. 

“Here. Lean on my shoulder while we walk.” Tyrion says as he takes her hand and lays it on the flat surface of his shoulder, just as messy as her dress. “I would offer to carry you, but I’m pretty sure winter will have come by the time we’ve made it past that next ridge.” She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t have the energy. But she appreciates the attempt at humor. Gripping him tightly, they begin to move, and slowly, painstakingly she forces her limbs to carry her forward, leaning heavily on his sturdy, small frame for support. 

They walk in silence, the crunching of dirt and pebbles beneath their boots the only sound in the cool, evening air. The sun as gone down beyond the ridge that lies ahead of them, across a dipping plain of fields and sparse forests. 

Ever so slowly, Sansa’s mind has begun to clear. And their situation has begun to set it. Could all the other men really be dead? She had seen Jarak fall, a stone buried in the back of his head, but maybe someone had made it. They should have checked. Did Tyrion check? She remembers him rummaging around, gathering a few things into his leather sidebag, wandering through the piles of bodies. They’re only blur of limbs and blood in her memory, but she remembers the sight of it. Of course, he’d checked. No one could have survived that.

Glancing down, she notices how rigidly Tyrion is holding himself, the way hard set of his jaw, how his expression in almost a grimace. 

“You’re injured!” 

There’s a thick gash cut into his upper arm that extends to onto his chest. She can barely see the wound. through the slice in his thick leather jerkin, but even in this low light, it glistens red. Tyrion squares his shoulders, shaking his head slightly. “I’m fine. It looks worse than it is; all the that blood. Most of it isn’t even mine.” 

They walk in silence for a while longer, Sansa’s mind blank one moment, then whirling with all possibilities of their situation the next. 

“That was the first man I ever killed…” 

Sansa’s heart stills. Very slowly, she turns her head to look at him. He didn’t say it as if he was boasting or as if he was sorry. He seems to have only just realized.   
Starring straight ahead, he appears to be contemplating it, weighing it in his mind. “Probably about time…” 

Oh, Tyrion…

She wants to say something. To comfort or validate him. She doesn’t know what; but she should say something… She says nothing. And, in fact, there doesn’t seem to be anything left to say. 

They don’t speak for the rest of the journey. Its nearly dark when they finally decide to stop- well, if decide means, they cannot physically take another step- in a hallow of trees and shrubbery inside a small patch of woods. They had crossed a stream aways back, where they’d paused to gulp down handfuls of the chilled water, and Tyrion walks back to it to fill their single waterskin, while Sansa sorts through the meager collection of supplies they’d managed to gather before leaving. All of it is covered in dried blood. When Tyrion returns, he attempts to start a fire. 

It does not go well… Neither he, nor Sansa have had much experience starting fires from scratch. Tyrion had managed to scavenge a tinderbox from the fallen soldiers’ stores, but neither of them had ever used one before. All throughout the journey, one of the other men had always built and lit the evening fires. Now, in the semi-darkness, with damp wood and aching bodies, it’s nearly impossible. By the time Tyrion’s fingers have gone numb from striking and stripping wood, its completely dark and the night’s chill has begun to set in. 

“I only managed to get one extra cloak, My Lady.” Tyrion says, as they crawl about on the ground, already spreading out their very thin bed. “We’ll have to sleep back to back for warmth.” He pauses. She knows, even as their hands are fumbling and shaking with cold, he’s unsure weather she’ll find it inappropriate to sleep in such proximity. Sansa couldn’t care less. Her toes are numb and she’s so, so bone tired… She can’t get to his body heat quickly enough.

They press close under the single cloak, the thin layer beneath doing nothing to cushion from rocks and the roots of the tree they’re huddled under. Its barely big enough. Sansa has to hold tight to the corner just to keep it over her body. 

Great gods, old and new, please just let her sleep! But every time her leaden eyes slip closed, the bitter chill sends a shiver through her. 

Sansa finds herself tugging on Tyrion’s shoulder. “Turn over.” She barely hears him over the steady gusts of wind when he mutters. But, a moment later, he’s turning over onto his back, and she’s cuddling up to his side. He’s too exhausted to be surprised when she lays her head on his shoulder and pulls the blanket over her head. Burrowing down as well, he wraps an arm around her shoulders and immediately, his eyes slide closed. 

It’s a fitful night. The wind blows steadily, loud in their ears, loud in the trees; but finally, morning comes, and pale light begins to leak through colorless sky. Tyrion’s are already open when she opens her eyes. They first thing she notices is how close they are, how she can feel his breath on her forehead. The second is the ache. She bites her lip and hisses, immediately retracting her stretching limbs. It hurts-everywhere! Her muscles spasm and strain painfully, even after she’s stopped moving. “Ouch!” She groans. 

“I know.” Tyrion murmurs. “Me too.” He sounds exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept at all. His voice is horse and thick with sleep. 

Sansa’s eyes fall closed. Time to go back to bed… 

“We should get moving.” Sansa tries not to hear him, but she doesn’t want to have to endure the pain of bringing her hands up to cover her ears. “We need to put as much distance between us and those Mountainmen as possible.” 

“Mmm-mm.” Shaking her head, Sansa pulls the blanket over the top of her head, burrowing down beneath it. “Everything hurts!” 

“I know that, but we really do.” He tries to insist, but she’s already groaning, holding it out until she effectively cuts off his words. “Fine then, I’ll just make you get up.” With great upheaval, he begins to rise from his sleeping position on the ground, jostling out from under her and letting the cool air under their makeshift blanket.

Finally, he extricates himself from beneath the bedding and Sansa is forced to sit up. As soon as she does, she regrets it! “Oww!” She hisses, immediately throwing back the blanket, hauling up her skirts, and rolling down the stocking on her left leg. Turing her leg on its side, she finds the thick, round bruise stamped into the soft flesh of her under-calf. Its deep purple and black, and the skin around the print from the horse’s hoof is splotched with sickly brown and bright red. “Ugh”, she groans again, tentatively wrapping a hand around her leg above the bruise. Carefully, she begins to message the tender flesh surrounding it. 

Tyrion grimaces down at it. Making a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat, he bends over to get a better look and says, “That’s a nasty one. One of the horses got you?” 

“They nearly trampled me!” Sansa glances up at him before going back to work on soothing her tight muscles. 

“That’s not going away anytime soon… Can you still walk?”

“Yes”, she responds, rolling up her stocking and climbing shakily to her feet, “I suppose I’ll have to.” 

Tyrion nods and begins gathering up their supplies, and Sansa joins him. “We’ll need to go back to that spring we passed last night to refill on water. It should be only a short walk. Then we can continue on.”

“Continue on where?” Sansa exclaims, shooting him an incredulous look. “Do you know where we we’re going?” 

Tyrion actually laughs. Shaking his head, he holds his arms out to the sides. “Does it look like I know where we’re going?! Of course, I don’t know. We’ll just have to pick a direction and keep going until we find some sort of civilization.” 

Of course, he doesn’t know. And now it really dawns on her, how utterly and hopelessly lost they are. She presses her lips into a thin line and watches as Tyrion ties up the tinderbox and tucks it into the bag, the would on his arm and chest clearly visible in the pale morning light. It’s stopped bleeding, all dark and crusty with dried blood, but she can’t tell just how bad it is beneath the layers of his clothes. 

“Shouldn’t we try to clean and dress your wound?” She asks, the scrape on her own shoulder throbbing. 

“Unless you have some clean bandages or healing salve I don’t know about, I don’t think we’d better mess with it. It doesn’t hurt too bad right now, and I fear if we open it back up again and expose it to the open air, it may begin to fester. Let’s just get to somewhere safe, a town or someone’s home, where we can bathe and sleep on a real bed; then I’ll tend to it.” Slowly Sansa nods, and the two pack up the rest of their camp in silence. 

Back at the stream, they both fall to their knees on the bank, rolling up their sleeves and thrusting their hands in up to the elbows. Last night they’d been too tired to wash, but now they finally begin scrubbing off the layers of dried gore and dirt. They’re clothes are still plastered with the stuff, stiff and smelly, but its delicious to finally have clean skin. 

Sansa watches as Tyrion gathers up water in his cupped hands and splashes the filth from his face. When he’s finished, he looks up at her and then grins. “You missed a spot.” He says pointing to her own face. 

“Where?”

He grins again, showing all his teeth, and then replies, “I think the better question is, where is it not.”

A memory surfaces; a thick spray of blood splashing all across her front, hot on her cheek and at the corner of her eye. She smirks a little, then dives in. 

They’re back on the road by the time the sun is nearly above their heads in the sky. Around them, the trees shudder with gusts of cool wind and leaves and dirt blow across the ground around their ankles. The sky is a drab gray and the sun does little warm earth or the two travelers as they traverse across the empty landscape.   
If traveling before, on horseback with food in their bellies and warm beds at night, was bad; this is dreadful. They keep up a decent pace, but it feels like they’re barely moving at all. Hours stretch by, and still, the same hills loom in the distance. The sun reaches its apex and then descends, and still it seems like they’re getting nowhere. 

By the time night falls, they still haven’t seen even a sign of another human being. The road has turned to only a faded trail, overgrown and rocky; and the an open, a hilly plain, stretches endless before them, before the land slips down into a shallow valley on the horizon. All day, they’ve been starring at the same sky, the same plain, the same trail. Now, despite the soreness and the discomfort, it’s all Sansa can do to help Tyrion make the bed before collapsing into sleep. 

This morning is worse than the last. Somehow, Sansa is even more sore than before, a heavy, tired lead filling her veins. She and Tyrion barely speak as they gather up their things and continue on. They haven’t had any real food since the day they left the Vale, only snacking on some leftover dried meat and stale bread from Tyrion’s bag, and they haven’t passed another water source since yesterday. Now, the waterskin, and their stomachs are hopelessly, unbearably empty.

The weather is unchanged as they hike along, the sky remaining misty and dismal, and a soft wind blowing Sansa’s hair into her eyes and mouth. After a while, Sansa’s body goes into automatic and her mind wanders to her troubles; and there are plenty to keep it entertained through the long morning and noon hours. When Tyrion calls a halt for a rest and to relieve himself, Sansa looks up and- to her surprise- finds they’re just on the edge of the hill that slopes down into the small valley. 

After they’ve both taken a piss in some bushes, its just a few paces more before they can see down into it. She surveys the area, very similar to their current surroundings; open fields of tall grass and patches of wood here and there, and-. It that a building? Squinting, she scans she area and finds more of the squat structures. 

“We’ve made it!” Tyrion exclaims. “Looks like there’s a village down there!” Sansa laughs with joy, relief flooding her, making her wish she could collapse right here and now. But its only a short journey, and then, at last, a hot meal and a bed… 

Aching and tired as they are, Sansa and Tyrion hurry down the hill and across the remaining distance to the cluster of buildings. Once they’re near, she can see it is a village, and a good sized one at that. There are rows and rows of buildings with muddy streets bustling with people and animals. The outskirts of town are scattered with random houses, and as they near, Tyrion slows and draws close to her. 

“We’d better not tell anyone who we are. There’s a war going on and it wouldn’t do well to be recognized by an enemy.” Sansa nods, her eyes scanning the area, the road heading straight into the middle of the town. “In fact, you should put up your hood. Not many commonfolk have seen hair as red as yours. It’s a recognizable color.” Nodding again, she pulls up the hood of her cloak and moves in close to Tyrion, ducking her head as a man, pulling a donkey behind him, passes on the other side of the road. 

They’re in among the houses now, a constant stream of people going by in the road, too busy about their business to notice the two strangers. “We should get off the main street until we can get out bearings and find out what sort of town this is”, Tyrion whispers, grabbing her wrist and guiding her toward a side street. “Hopefully, there’s an inn of some kind here that we can stay at for the night.” 

The houses are still sparse out on the outskirts, so there isn’t much cover, but Tyrion keeps them close to the edge, inside the shadows cast by the large buildings. Suddenly, Sansa spots four of five men with spears in their hands, wearing assorted armor, up on the road ahead. They’re laughing and jesting with each other, and don’t notice them, but she feels Tyrion stiffen beside her. He’s seen them too… Before she knows what’s happening, she finds herself being yanked behind the side of a small wooden shed. 

“What”, she whispers, breathlessly. 

“Don’t want to risk it. We’ll wait here until they leave.” Tyrion pulls her along to the other side of the shed, that must house livestock judging from the smell, and they duck behind a tall woodpile. 

There’s someone working in the yard on the other side of the pile. He’s digging in the soft ground, the thumps of his shovel and grunts of effort the only sound. They wait, Tyrion peering round the side of the woodpile every now and then to check if the coast is clear. 

As they’re waiting, another man walks by to join the first. 

“Where have you been?” Says the first, accent thick and displeasure evident in his tone. 

“Oi, Gryfen! You’ll never believe what I just saw!” The second man seem oblivious to the annoyance of the first. “I just saw a little dwarf man just walkin’ down the street.” 

“Oh, sod off. Nobody bloody cares what you saw.”

“I’m telling you man, it was a real life dwarf man. You don’t suppose it could have been the Imp, Tyrion Lannister?” 

Sansa’s heart freezes in her chest. Both Tyrion’s and her head whip around to stare at each other in astonishment. 

“The Queen’s brother?” The first man, with a much gruffer voice, exclaims. “Don’t be a bloody twat! What would he be doin here?” 

The other man chuckles deviously to himself. “Fuckin yer sister.”

“Don’t even joke about that!” Sansa cringes as she hears the shovel hit the ground with a particularly hard thrust. “Just imagine those all those wee little imps runnin about. Enough to make a man sick! Besides, the man has plenty enough cunts to keep him happy in the capital. He’s just as likely to fuck you, as my sister.” That makes him laugh. 

“Oi!” The second man cries out, but he’s snickering too. 

Sansa glances over at Tyrion, to offer an apologetic and slightly outraged look, but startles when she finds him only looking slightly amused, grinning and leaning his head against the woodpile, entirely entertained by the whole conversation. She frowns, but Tyrion only shrugs and cocks a brow. She wonders how he can stand to hear people say such horrible things about him. While she’s about ready to vault over the pile and give them both a piece of her mind! 

“No mate, listen to me.” Says the second man, catching his breath. “It really could have been him. Haven’t you heard; they say he was at Winterfell.” 

“Winterfell?” The other man guffaws. “What was he doin there? Fuckin Ned Stark’s daughter?” They both erupt into uproarious laughter again, and Sansa feels her face flame bright red with anger. Oh, now they’ve really done it! 

“Actually, probably yes. Haven’t you heard about what’s been goin on up there? Master Dike was tellin us all about it. Apparently, the Lannisters are workin with the Frey and Bolton to overthrow the North. He went to visit Winterfell, and then when the Starks were captured, the Imp kidnapped the eldest daughter, Sansa, and brought her down south, toward the capital. Someone told Dike they were spotted near the Eyrie.”

“Really?”

“Eye. Dike told us to keep an eye out, because Frey is offering a reward of fifty gold dragons to the man who captures them. He said we might ride out on a search party tomorrow, just in case.”

So, Walder Frey knows that Sansa and Tyrion have left Winterfell and knows that they were visiting her aunt? But how? She exchanges a look with Tyrion, but he only mutely shakes his head, the amusement banished and replaced with growing concern. 

There is a long pause, then the first man speaks again. “But I thought Lannister was working with the Freys. Why would they want to capture him?”

A good question. 

“Well… You see, they say he might not be working with them, but with the Starks. That he was visiting Winterfell when they attacked, and he and Lady Stark escaped together, sneaking down to the Vale to get help from old Lady Arryn. But you know how crazy she is. Anyway, they said they were seen leaving the Eyrie. And either way, fifty gold dragons is a lot of money, and he’s a little prick anyway.”

“A prick that can make us rich!” 

“Exactly! And besides, now that Winterfell has fallen to the Boltons, the Freys are even more powerful. We could be given a castle or a highborn lady for our trouble. I mean-.

But Sansa does not here another word… A dream. A nightmare! Winterfell has fallen… Winterfell has fallen- No! No, no, no, no! Please, please, it cannot be true!  
Beside her, Tyrion stiffens. He places a concerned hand on her shoulder, but she barely feels it. Her vision goes blurry as her mind focuses in on three terrible words, words that have just changed her life forever: Winterfell has fallen. 

It doesn’t seem real; it can’t be. She numbly stares at the ground in front of her, unable to process, unable to comprehend. No, no, no! That’s her home! Her family’s home! How dare- how dare they! The weight of it is beginning to settle on her, the cold reality piercing her chest like picks of ice, causing her breaths to stutter and then speed up. Sansa clamps her hand over her mouth and leans forward, crouching in on herself, rocking back and forth, trying to keep the sound of her pain from exploding from her chest. 

But they’re still talking, and if its information about the battle, she must listen!

“So, Ramsay Bolton really did take Winterfell, then?” Asks the first man. 

“Yeah. They say it was a hell of a battle. Rob Stark did a fine job fending them off at first, but then the Bolton army made it over walls, and it was over pretty quickly. Rob Stark was forced to retreat after most of his army had been whipped out. He and maybe a third of his men ran away to one of his allies Houses for refuge.” 

Oh! The relief is almost as strong as the horror she’d felt. Rob is alive! And maybe Rickon too! Her heart rejoices, and she raises her face to the heavens, clasping her hands in praise to the gods. Thank you, thank you! It is this that makes her begin silently weep. 

Tyrion reaches over and takes her hand in his own, gripping tightly. When she glances over at his face, she sees her joy and relief and mirrored there. He smiles and nods, squeezing her hand in reassurance. “He’s still alive”, Tyrion whispers. Rob is still alive. Its not over. 

“Well, you better tell me if Dike decides to go Imp huntin tomorrow. But for now, you better get back to work. I’ve been diggin this whole thing myself, while you’ve been off wankin off to dwarves! Here, take my shovel! Its my turn to have a break!” The men trade off, and the pair listens as the first man’s heavy footfalls march by their woodpile. 

“The coast is clear.” Tyrion whispers, once he’s out of range. “Let’s get out of here!” 

They hurry away, bent almost double, scurrying between buildings, before slipping into a narrow ally between two houses. Sansa is still wiping tears from her cheeks when they press their backs against the wall and Tyrion takes a deep breath. “That was close.” 

“So, Walder Frey has a reward out on us…” 

“It appears so. I guess I was right to keep us hidden. If those soldiers had caught us…”

Sansa doesn’t even want to think about that. Her eyes flit around the area, suddenly alert, before landing on the small man beside her. “So, what do we do now?”  
“We absolutely must have a room and warm food tonight! We must! If we don’t, I’ll die! Let’s disguise ourselves as best as we can then we’ll find an inn, and hopefully they won’t ask us any questions.” Frowning, Tyrion considers a moment, then begins patting himself down. “You don’t happen to have any money, do you?”

She does actually. She always keeps a small purse tied to the inside of her pocket, just in case. “Yes”, she replies, a little irritated, “But not much. Don’t you?”  
Not looking her in the eyes, Tyrion continues patting his clothing. “Well, I…”

Of course... Sansa let out a very long, exasperated sigh. “You gave it all to that jailer, didn’t you? You just had to pay your debts?” 

“Alright, alright.” He says sheepishly. “I can’t help it now.” 

“Well, hopefully this is enough for one room.”

Hoods up and heads bent, the pair make their way to the center of town, keeping to the back streets and darting in-between houses. Finally, they spot a rundown, two-story building with a sign out-front saying, ‘Inn’. Tyrion and Sansa crouch in the shadows across the street to go over their strategy. 

“We’ll need to pretend that we’re married, or else they won’t let us get a room together. I just heard two people, coming out of there, talking about how stingy and suspicious the owner is. We’ll have to make sure she doesn’t suspect anything.” Tyrion explains, eyeing Sansa a little cautiously. 

“Alright. No problem. I’d do just about anything for a hot bath right now. Lying should be no problem.” She has no qualms about either sharing a room with Tyrion or pretending to be married to him. But it does feel a little ironic; Tyrion had ended here because his brother had sent him to propose to her, and now they’re pretending to be husband and wife. Strange are the ways of fate… She even feels a little thrill at idea of being in disguise, playing the role of Lady Lannister.

Cautiously, they cross the street, hand in hand, and enter the inn, just behind a group of tough-looking men. In all his travels, Tyrion has stayed at his share of countryside inns. Each one is the same; with eccentric owners, packed with unsavory people and the smells of too many occupants and terrible cooking. They’re always disgusted by him, always try to turn him away, until they realize who he is, and then spend the rest of the time groveling at his feet. This appears to be no different, though, this time, they aren’t going to find out who he is… and that could end up making things difficult. 

The entry room is large, dimly lit by a roaring fire in the hearth, and filled with long, wooden tables, stretching the length of the room. People bustle about, coming and going by the small door that the pair has just enter through; maids serving the customers and refilling metal cups of ale and others milling about or conversing over a dinner of slop-colored stew. He hadn’t expected such a small place to be so busy.

There’s a tall, wooden table beside the door, and behind that, the open doorway to the kitchen and owner’s quarters beyond. Tyrion and Sansa stand there, unsure of what to do. They have to keep darting out of the way as people bustle past on all sides, egger to get out the door and be about their business. 

All of a sudden, a short grubby woman comes marching out of the kitchen. Her apron is covered in greasy grime and her hair is the same drab color as her simple dress. Stopping behind the wooden table, she peers at them behind narrowed eyes. “Can I help you?” Her voice is unmistakably annoyed. 

“Ah, yes. Good day, Madame.” Her eyelids narrow even further at the word ‘madame’. “My wife and I will be needing the best room you have available.” His hand is still clasped in Sansa’s larger one, and he makes a show of patting her the top of her hand with his other. The woman’s jaw remains locked tight, her eyes moving up and down the length of them. They wait, nervously under her scrutinizing gaze. When she finally does open her mouth, Tyrion wishes she hadn’t, because its filled with mossy brown, half-rotted teeth. 

“And who might you be? I’ve never seen you before.”

Tyrion does his very best to smile pleasantly, despite his discomfort. “We’re travelers. You see, that’s why we need a room… We’ve been on the road for quite some time now, and we would be extremely grateful for comfortable place to stay the night.”

Again, her gaze passes down their bodies, pausing on the leather bag at Tyrion’s side. “You ain’t got much luggage.”

“No…ah…” Frantically, he searches for an explanation. “You see, it was an unexpected journey. We didn’t have much time to pack.” 

“But you’ve got money…?” The woman watches distrustfully, recoiled in on herself, as if she doesn’t dare get any closer. 

Smiling broadly, Tyrion fishes in his bag and produces Sansa’s small purse with a flourish. They’d made sure to stop outside and add a few pebbles to help the purse seem even fuller than it is. “Of course. We’ll be happy to pay any price you ask.” 

Suddenly, the woman jerks forward, a nasty grimace twisting her face. She thrusts her finger in Sansa’s direction. “You! You say you’re married to him?”

Sansa seems startled at being addressed by the burley woman. “I-. Yes. This is my husband.” She takes a tentative step away from the grimy finger being pointed at her. 

“I don’t believe it!” And this time, both Tyrion and Sansa start backwards, Sansa’s heart pounding in her chest. “I think you’re a whore!”

A whore!? Sansa’s mouth falls open in astonishment! 

“I think you’re a nasty little whore, commin round here to corrupt my customers! Well, I won’t have it!” Already, the woman’s hollering has drawn the attention of several of the people sitting at the tables around the room. A group of men at a table nearby are eyeing them, nudging each other and snickering. 

“I most certainly am not!” Sansa says indignantly, letting all pretense of courtesy slip away.

“Oh, you’re not, are you? Seem like a whore to me. Only a whore would be married to a dwarf when you could have a respectable husband; if you really are married to him. Just as likely, he’s your little concubine. Well, I won’t have you bringin your little whore troll round my fine establishment!” 

Whore troll!?!! 

“How dare-” 

“Ahem.” Before Sansa has a chance to give this singularly discourteous person the tongue-lashing she deserves, Tyrion is squeezing her hand in both of his, pulling her back and behind him, putting some space between the woman and this snarling pretend-wife. “S-Sallie dearest. Its fine.” He locks her hand tightly in his grip and forces her to stay still at his side. 

“No, My love. It’s not.” She counters through gritted teeth. Tyrion may not be her real husband, but still, no one gets to talk about him that way!

“Please, try to calm yourself, darling.” Mutters Tyrion, forcing his tone to say light, eyes locked on the woman, still maintaining an overly-wide smile. “Now, Madame, I’m sure we can work something out. As you can see, we have plenty of money here and-.”

“I don’t your dirty whore money!”

“If I were a whore, don’t you think I’d just got down to the whorehouse down the street?” Jerking forward, Sansa starts towards the woman, but Tyrion successfully forces her back in place. 

Biting her lip, the Inn-owner seems to consider this for a moment. “Well then, if you ain’t a whore, you’re some of those horrible entertainer people, who travel about and spreading disease and witchcraft and blasphemy against the gods!” 

Really, Tyrion thinks, inwardly rolling his eyes; does everything have to be this difficult?

“You’re one of those harlots, a witch with dark magical powers. You’ve come here to turn us all into debauchery craving demons or toads that do your bidding. I’ll bet he isn’t even really a man. I’ll bet he was once a donkey, who you had an unnatural lust for, so you turned him into a little man so you could have your way with him!”   
Sansa almost forgets to be outraged for a second, because it’s so preposterous, almost comical. At least she has a good imagination… 

“That’s it!” Sansa exclaims. She’s had just about enough of this! “I will not sit here and endure this insulting behavior. I am not whore or a witch, and my husband is not a donkey or anything of the sort! My husband and I are respectable people and if our money isn’t good enough for you, we’ll go elsewhere. Furthermore, I would thank you not to speak that way about him that way. If you continue to disrespect him, I’ll make sure you never have another decent customer!” 

“As if anyone would listen to you, harlot!” 

“Do not test me.” 

The woman studies them through her slits of eyes, tapping her chin and leaving a dirty smudge of grease behind. After some careful consideration, the Innkeeper finally releases a deep breath. Straightening her spine with a loud pop, she turns then towards the kitchen. “Very well. I’ll go and speak with my associate; see what he thinks. You two stay here.” She’s barely through the archway, when a hand shoots out to point back at them. “And don’t touch anything!”

Both Tyrion and Sansa let out a sigh of relief. “What was that?” whispers Sansa, giving him a look. 

“I don’t know. But hopefully, she’s finally convinced, and I can go sleep for a very, very long time.” As they wait, Tyrion’s eyes search the dining room, taking in the other customers, most of which keep casting them curious glances. Wonderful. Thanks to the Innkeeper, they’ve got exactly what they need; more attention. 

As his gaze sweeps the room, he notices the nearby group of men are still watching them intently. Not him… Sansa. They’re ogling her. He feels his stomach constrict at the way they’re devouring her with their eyes, as if they’re imagining her without her clothes on. Casually he plants himself between her and the group of men, even though he knows they can’t. He watches closely out of the corner of his eye as they whisper to one another and motion towards the pair beside the door. 

One of the men, the one on the end of the bench, closest to them, downs the remainder of his mug of ale and throws it down on the table with a loud bang. Then, with some urging from his companions, raises his voice. “Hello there, little lady. How would you like take a real man’s cock?” He palms the lump between his legs, suggestively thrusting his hips, while the other men laugh and hoot, slapping him on the back in congratulations; as if he’s just said the most clever thing in the world.

Keeping her attention fixed forward, Sansa appears to be trying to ignore them, but Tyrion can tell by the redness in her cheeks and clenching of her fists, how furious she is. 

The man to the left of the first sits up in his seat and leans over the table toward her, a sloppy grin on his thick chops. “If that dwarf of a husband has any trouble satisfying you tonight, just let us know. We’ll be more than happy to help.”

He knows he shouldn’t speak to them, shouldn’t encourage them, that it will only get him into trouble; but he can’t help it. Forcing his expression into indifference, he smoothly turns in their direction, observing them coldly. “Excuse me. But that’s my wife you’re talking to.” 

“Oh come on, pretty lady”, the man says, taking a long sip of his ale, “I’ve never had any complaints before.” 

I’m sure that’s true…

“No thank you. I’m positive that won’t be necessary.” Sansa replies, looking anywhere but at the men. Squeezing her hand even tighter, Tyrion places a protective arm around her waist, feeling his own anger bubbling up inside, white hot. It he still had his men with him- if these peasants knew who he was- they would be quick to swallow their tongues. 

“Just ignore them.”, he mutters. 

“Eye. But you don’t know what you’re missing, until you’ve been taken by a true man. I wouldn’t even consider you a woman, until you’ve had a real cock.” The first man is practically falling off the bench, he’s leaning forward so eagerly, dogged smile peeling back his lips to reveal yellow teeth. “Come on, girly. Let me see your tits, and I may even tip you for it.” 

He feels it before he sees it; her body going ridged, stiff at stone. Then, all at once, she stomps over, until she’s standing above the men, her back straight and chin lifted. She towers over them. Coldly, she glares down her nose at whole measly group, silencing the catcalls immediately. 

Her voice is deadly soft and sharp as ice. “Listen, you barbaric thugs. My husband may be a dwarf, but he’s a bigger man than you’ll ever be! I have no need of any of you when I have him!”

Sansa don’t. Don’t taunt them. Its not worth it… I can’t protect you from them. I can’t protect you at all…

“And even if I didn’t, I still wouldn’t degrade myself low enough to sleep with any of you!” Her voice has grown to a low growl. Tyrion watches as the initial surprise and nervousness on their faces give way to disgust and anger. Its time to get her out of there, before the says any more and gets herself into real trouble; and he can tell she has so much more to say. 

Before she realizes what he’s doing, Tyrion hurries over and takes her arm and sweeps her away, back to the doorway, beaming the furious men an apologetic smile. “Come on now, Dear. Let’s get your smelling salts out so you can calm down.” He keeps his tone light and patronizing. “I know, its very hard to think with all those voices in your head. Don’t worry. After a long nap, you’ll feel much better.” 

Glaring down at him, she’s about to protest, when the grubby Innkeeper woman returns; silencing them both. The men don’t make any move against them, only glare sulkily at them over their bowls of stew. 

“Alright”, the woman sighs, still eyeing them distrustfully, “You can stay here one night. But if I hear or see anything suspicious, its out with the both of you! Now, hand over the money.”

Tyrion gives her the remainder of the coins in Sansa’s purse and, after counting them twice, the woman waves them forward. “Come with me. Let’s get you to your sleeping quaters.” Following her across the room, to a door on the other side, they’re just about to exit when the first man from the table calls after them. 

“Sleep well, little lady. If we don’t hear you screaming tonight, we’ll take that as a sign to come up and make you ourselves.” Swallowing down the sudden rush of fear, Tyrion urges Sansa through the door and finally away from those disgusting animals. 

Its only a short trip up a rickety, narrow staircase to a long hallway with doors leading off on both sides. All the way up, the Innkeeper informs them of rules they must follow. No room service. Don’t let the fire go out, cause she won’t come to your room in the middle of the night. You must come to the meals on time, otherwise you’ll miss them. If you want to eat in your room, you’ll have to bring it up yourself and you’d better clean up afterwards. No fighting with the other customers. No devil magic. No prostitution, and no whores. 

When they reach the top of the stairs, the woman halts at the end of the long hallway, crossing her arms over her broad chest. “That’s your room right there.” She points to the door at the far end. “No funny business. I’ll be watching you.” 

And she does. They start down the hall, and when Tyrion glances over his shoulder, she still standing there, tapping her foot and glaring. Grinning broadly, he waves and turns back around. “She’s still watching us.” 

Sansa also risks a nonchalant glance back the way they’d come. “Well come on. Let’s get out of here.” She whispers. 

“Oh look, here’s our room!” Raising his voice loud enough so the Innkeeper can hear it clearly, he grins delightedly, pretending she isn’t there at all. 

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather get some dinner before we retire.” Sansa asks, raises her voice to match his tone, observing the woman out of the corner of her eye.

“No. I think not.” Tyrion makes a great show of bowing and sweep an arm towards the door. “I’m much more interested in getting you out of those filthy traveling clothes, and into our bed.”

Despite the overdramatic show they’re putting on, Sansa doesn’t have to fake the blush that colors her cheeks at his bold words. “My Love. Don’t speak so loudly. Someone will hear us.” Obviously. 

“Good”, Tyrion leans in conspiratorially, lowering his voice in a false whisper and grinning devilishly. “Those men wanted to hear you scream; I’ll be only too happy to oblige.”

A startled, but not displeased, laugh. They’re standing just outside the door, now, Sansa’s hand clasped in both of Tyrion’s, in full view of the woman glowering from the shadows. Sansa’s cheeks are rosy with the heat from his words and there’s a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she gazes down at him. Tyrion can’t help but feet a light blush on his own face and a slight thrill deep in his chest. This is all play; but the look Sansa is giving him makes his heart beat more quickly. He likes her this way. 

“Oh, husband!” Sansa falsely admonishes, still grinning from ear to ear. Then, she does something he was NOT expecting. Suddenly, without hesitation, she’s taking his collar in her free hand, closing it in her fist, and leans down; closer and closer. And Tyrion is startled, uncertain whether he should be backing away. Is she-? And then, just like that, she kisses him; squarely on the mouth. His mind goes blank; and then its just the feel of her lips- pressed together firmly, but warm and soft.   
Half a heartbeat later, it’s over. Straightening up, as if nothing at all had happened, Sansa resumes her bright smile. 

“Shall we?”

He’s still blinking, trying to get over the fluttering in his chest, but he sweeps his arm out in a grand gesture. “After you.”

The door opens and he’s barely aware of what he’s doing, until he’s followed her through, and their backs are pressed against inside of the door. He lets out a long, harsh breath of relief. Pressing his ear to the wooden slats, he listens for any signs they’ve been followed. “That was close.” He’s vaguely aware of how closely their standing together and how she’s starring at him, but he’s far too flustered. Dusting off the front of his breaches, he tries to distract himself from the pounding of his heart. 

“My lady, I apologies for the things I said out there. I-.” 

Their eyes meet. She’s low, back against the door, legs wedged in front of her. They’re almost on a level with each other now. She’s breathing hard. So is he. Noticing her eyes are on his lips. Noticing his are on hers. 

One breath. Two. When did they get so close? Was it her leaning in, or him? Was it both? One breath. Two... 

And suddenly she’s lurching forward to press her lips to his. She’s kissing him, and he’s kissing her right back! For real this time! And oh… Her lips and her mouth and even her tongue, and her hand firmly cupping his cheek, tips of her fingers dipping just below his hairline. His hand on her arm, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss. And oh, oh, it’s…

All of a sudden, she jerks back, pulling away to look at him, her blue eyes wide as full moons. They stare at each other. Tyrion’s mouth hangs open, lips still wet with her saliva, breaths coming in gasps. Then, with a little choking sound in the back of her throat, she whirls away, rushing towards the squat cabinet beside the single wide bed, not even glancing back as she says; “Your wound. We’d better dress it right away!”

Tyrion stands there a moment, stuck in place. Starring with wide open eyes at the place where she’d just been, heart hammering and mind spinning. What just…? Did they just…? Vaguely, out of the corner of his eye, he sees her frantically rummaging around in the cabinet, on her knees beside the bed. “Come on!” She insists, still not looking at him. 

Blinking several times; Tyrion swallows, blinks again, clenches and unclenches his fists, swallows again, and takes a deep breath. Shaking his head, he tries desperately to quiet the roaring in his ears and the heat roaring like dragonfire in his veins. She just kissed him! He just kissed her! And he’d liked it… His cheeks redden at the thought. 

But finally, after one more deep breath, squaring his shoulders and thinking- ‘No problem; You’re good; It was just a kiss; No big deal’- he makes to join her on the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeeek! It finally happened!!! Yay! I've been so extremely excited to get to this part so you guys could experience it too! And yes, we do need to address the sad part too. Rob was defeated and Winterfell has been claimed by Ramsay. Yikes! But hopefully not forever. 
> 
> And we're halfway through already! Seriously, thank you so much for reading and commenting along. It seriously brings me so much joy to see you all enjoying what I've created! I was wondering if you all would do me a favor and let me know what color you would associate with this story/my writing. You know, for the sake of science!


	9. The Heart of a Wolf

“First of all, let’s get a good look at it.”

They’re sitting on the edge of the bed, facing each other, a pile of clean strips of cloth and jars of salves and ointments spread on the threadbare quilt between them.  


Tyrion’s brain is still trying to catch up, because a moment ago, Sansa Stark was kissing him. And now she’ starring at him expectantly with a determined look in her eyes, telling him to take off his shirt. The thought makes him blush. But really, isn’t she going to say anything, anything at all, about what just happened?

Licking his lips, runs his hands repeatedly down the front of his chest, the fine leather jerkin, now crusty with filth and riddled with holes and scrapes. He suddenly feels uncertain about the idea of her seeing his body. 

Tyrion has never had any problem with nudity; in fact, he usually enjoys it. And she will not be the first- or even one-hundredth woman to see him without a shirt on. But, still, there is some part of him that does not want her to see him, to know what he looks like under those layers; flat-chested and soft-bellied after years of drink and little manual labor. Of course, she knows there’s nothing impressive there, just by looking at him. But still…

She’s still starring at him, brows raised, waiting. His eyes swivel around the room, finally landing on her, and when they do, she cocks her head. Go on. But he does not want her to see, not want her to be disappointed. Don’t be silly, he tells himself, she doesn’t care. But he cares, for some reason…

“Tyrion… come on.” 

He blows a long strand of air out between pursed lips, shaking his head slightly. “What’s the problem?” 

“Nothing I just… What’s the hurry?” 

Brows pulling together in a frown, she squints at him in confusion. “Don’t be silly. Come on.” And, to his astonishment, she begins tugging at the buttons at the collar of his jerkin. He tries to fend her off, but she’s already pulling it apart, yanking on the belt round his middle. After what they’d just been doing, this feels far too intimate. 

Clearing his throat, he pulls away, standing to his feet. “Alright. Alright. I’m doing it.” He tries to catch his breath as he turns away, unbuckling his belt and dropping it to the floor. Sansa’s hands fall into her lap, twitching a little as she watches, trying to conceal the tinge of pink in her cheek. “I’m just trying to help”, she says, her voice softer now. 

Finally, he sheds the grimy, stinking layers and returns to his place on the bed in just his breaches. She watches him, while trying not to watch, until he’s seated beside her. “Turn to the side.” She instructs firmly, and he does. With a determined hand, she takes his upper arm in one hand, though her touch is feather-light, and leans down to inspect it. Tyrion tries not to focus in on the tiny points where her skin is in contact with his; and how it had been much more just minutes ago.  
Craning his neck, he tries to get a better look, but he can only see a deep, dark scrape through his right bicep and chest, just below his nipple. 

“Doesn’t look too bad right”, he asks, because it really doesn’t hurt much anymore.

“Hmmm.” Pursing her lips, she squints at the cut in the dim light coming in from the single window. “I can’t tell.” She leans in even further, so that Tyrion can now feel her breath on the skin of his shoulder, and it distracts him. “It’ll probably need to be stitched up.” 

“Woah, woah! Stitched up? That won’t be necessary. Doesn’t even hurt. Just need to bathe and wrap it up, and it should be fine.” Sansa is already shaking her head, but he’s stands up, backing away. 

“Yes. We have to.” Her tone is soft but firm. “We don’t want it to open up again and start to fester.” 

“Nooooo…” Groaning, he continues to back away, shaking his head all the while. “No. I’ll be fine.”

Her hands are on her hips now. “Tyrion…” There’s a warning in her tone. 

“I really don’t think-.” 

“Tyrion Lannister!” That gets his attention. Freezing mid-step, heart hammering, he watches, tightlipped, as she stands to her full height and crosses the distance between them. “Now, shut up. You listen to your wife and let her help you!” 

Well then. Alright. Yes, ma’am. 

Feeling a little flustered, and maybe just the tiniest bit- he clears his throat and- ahem. He’s suddenly feeling very hot- all over. Again, he clears his throat. “Well now that you put it that way… Alright.” 

“Alright”, Sansa agrees, nodding once. Her face is still serious, but he can tell that she’s biting back a smile. “Why don’t you bathe first, then we’ll stich it up and wrap it in clean bandages.” Tyrion’s attention goes to the tub and wash basin at the other end of the room, separated from them by a small, thin curtain. 

“Very well. As you say, My Lady.” 

With some effort, together, they haul the large pot of water, that had already been warming at the hearth, over to the bathtub and dump it in. Then they refill it with the bucket in the corner and set it back above the coals for her turn. 

The water feels delicious! It’s the warmest he’s been in weeks, and it feels wonderful! All his sore muscles finally relaxing beneath the water’s warm caress. 

He returns to her, hair wet and dripping in eyes, clean and pink as newborn babe. He can’t help grinning, seeing the look on her face, upon seeing him clean for the first time in so long. “I’d almost forgotten what your real face looked like.” She chuckles, seeing how delighted he is to be clean. 

“That would have been a tragedy”, he replies, half facetiously and half not minding sounding pretentious. 

“Yes indeed.” She says playfully, in the same tone, so that he’s almost unsure of her true meaning.

They sit together on the bed, once again. While he bathed, she’d laid out the supplies in neat rows on top on the bed clothes, and now selects a small bottle of medicinal alcohol to clean the wound more thoroughly. It stings as she dabs it on with a piece of cloth, but her touch is gentle, and her fingers are cool and soothing on the skin of his arm. 

She seems to know exactly what she’s doing. Tyrion watches as she works, her expression all focus. After a moment, he realizes she’s frowning. 

“That woman”, he hears her mutter under her breath, and she shakes her head. Her nostrils flare as she sighs, anger returning with the memory. “That horrible woman.”

“What?”

She doesn’t look up. “That Innkeeper woman! You should have let me give her a piece of my mind! The nerve of her! Outright accusing me of being a whore! And saying you were a- were a donkey turned into a man.” 

“Ha.” Tyrion lets out a single loud laugh, then bites his lip when he sees she glare she’s shooting him. She’s absolutely fuming under a stony expression.  
“And those men before, in the yard! I don’t know how you can sit there so casually and let those men say such things about you. I was about ready to march out there slap them across the face!” 

“That’s very chivalrous of you, Sansa. But It’s fine. I’m used to it by now.” 

Pausing in her work, she casts him another glare. 

“Sansa”, he consoles; touched at her outrage for him, “I’ve had a lot worse things said to my face. It doesn’t affect me anymore. Don’t worry about it.” 

“But that’s the point! You shouldn’t have to be used to it!” There’s an anger there he’s rarely seen on her, and it startles him. “No one should have the right to speak about you in that way, no matter who you are. As if they’re any better than you, which they not. If only they only knew you were the son of Tywin Lannister, they would show more respect.”

“I’m afraid not.” He says, trying to hold back at how comically wrong she is, but also trying to speak softly; because she really is upset. “It not a matter of being mocked, but in what manner. Most of the people who know me, respect me to my face but mock me behind my back. In fact, you were one of the only people who has openly despised me because you knew who I was.” Now he allows himself a grin. “It was actually quite refreshing.” 

Still trying to hold onto her outrage, Sansa continues to dab at the cut furiously, glancing up, only briefly, through eyes narrowed to slits. “I didn’t despise you; I distrusted you”, she huffs, voice almost inaudible. “That’s not the same thing.” 

“Distrusted? Past-tense? Meaning you trust me now?”

Rolling her eyes, they lock gazes and she gives him a look of annoyance. Then they’re flitting down again, locking on her hands, attention purposefully fixed on the task of wrapping his arm. Gnawing on her bottom lip, she huffs again and mutters, “You know I do.”

He can’t help it. He grins. Eyes falling to his hands in his lap, he smiles secretly to himself, feeling a fluttering and utter joy deep inside his chest. So, she trusts him. She admitted it. When did that happen? And when did he start trusting her so entirely that he’d share a room with her and allow her to stitch up his arm with pointy object? How far they’ve come… It seems only yesterday, they were in the Great Hall at Winterfell, and she was telling him didn’t trust Lannisters. And here she is now; with one as her only companion. 

“I mean…” She’s still has her gaze fixed on her work, avoiding his. “You did save my life.” 

He scoffs at that. 

But her hand is insistent on his arm, squeezing until he finally looks at her. “You did. Without you killing that Wildman, I would be dead right now- or worse.” Or worse. He thinks of the threats the men downstairs had made, the vile words they’d used, the looks in their eyes as they lusted over her. And it makes his blood boil. But also fear… fear of what they wanted to do to her… what that Mountainman might have done. 

“Without you, I would be alone out there, with the Freys hunting me; I’d be all alone.” Her eyes flicker up to his, but quickly flit away. 

“Ha.” This all seems a bit dramatic. It’s not like he’s really been much help at all. “I doubt that would be much of a difference. I can’t protect you.”

Hands go still, stained cloth falling to the bed in a crumpled wad. They both stare at it. Then their eyes meet. A beat. Pale blue eyes; Tully blue. Nearly translucent in the sunlight filtering through the slats in the window above them. And when she speaks, there’s no pretense or falseness in her voice. “I mean it, Tyrion. You saved me.” 

Clearing his throat, Tyrion searches for something witty and clever to say. Things are suddenly far too serious. “You saved my life after all, it seems only fair that I should save yours.”

A smirk. She sees right past his words. How does she know him so well already…

“Alright. Time to start stitching.” An already threaded and cleaned needle lies ready on the bed, and she takes it up, squinting one eye at the tip. She sees his expression and grins. “Nothing to worry about. Won’t hurt any worse than the cut does.”

“I know. But I still don’t like it. Just the idea of it…” He shudders, bare skin suddenly rising with goosebumps in the open air. 

“You have nothing to worry about. Just don’t think about it.” 

It’s not too bad. Gritting his teeth, he prepares for the first poke, but finds he can barely feel it; only a strange tugging sensation as she pulls the thread through this skin. He doesn’t much like that. But the only thing that hurts is the her fingers prodding the sensitive area as she works the needle in and out. 

She makes quick work of it. Before he knows it, she’s tying off the final stitch on his arm. 

“You’re good at this.”

“Yes.” She says, simply, already rethreading the needle, licking the point of the thread into a point small enough to fit through the hole. “I’ve always been good with a needle. When I was young, I excelled in sewing lessons, which infuriated my sister. But Mother and the Septas always praised me for it…” A long pause, and she pauses mid-thread. “She taught me, actually… my mother...” Her eyes fix on the ground beside the bed, going distant, starring somewhere far into the past. Even as he watches, her brow furrows and her eyes go misty. 

He should say something. He wants to. But nothing seems adequate. ‘I’m sorry’, doesn’t seem adequate. But he hates that pain in her eyes, wants to do something to make it go away. But before he can, she’s shaken herself out of it; blinking and clearing her throat. The she begins work on the slice on his chest. 

This one she’s even more careful with. Its thinner, but deeper, and in a much more sensitive place. But ever gentle, she does her best not pull too hard or push too deep. 

Watching her deft, clever hands work, the strength in her thin arms, his eyes find their way to her hair, long and cascading over her shoulders. When they’d started out, it had been half done-up, braided and wrapped into a tight knot at the back of her head. But it has long since come undone; the amber strands hang lifelessly, dirty and tangled, down her back. It’s a remarkable color and stands out nicely against the purple of the dress she’d acquired in the Eyrie. Finely spun material, pale purple with flowery plum brocade, and-. He suddenly notices something as his eyes roam across the shoulders and back. 

“Sansa, you’re injured too!” 

There’s a few long scraps down the skin over her shoulder blade, visible through the tear in her dress. He hadn’t noticed before; probably because she’d been wearing a cloak the entire time. But now he can clearly see the angry, red marks, not nearly as deep as his, but still painful. 

“Oh.” Shrugging away from his hand, she sits up straighter and shifts her shoulders away from him. “Don’t worry about it.” Finishing the last stitch, she begins to tie it off. 

“Sansa”, he reprimands. “Here let me see it.” And with a sigh, she finishes off what she was working on, turning her back to him. Very gently, he sweeps her hair away to get a better look. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“Well, it is. We’d better get this cleaned and dressed right away. We wouldn’t want it to fester.” 

“Oh, please. It’s fine-.” She attempts but cuts off when he cocks a warning brow. “Now Sansa. Listen to your husband and let him take care of you!” 

She sighs, but there’s amusement in her eyes. “Seven hells…” Tyrion smirks, and can’t help a feeling of satisfaction swelling his chest. “Very well. I’ll go and bathe, while you wait out here. Then you can fix it up.”

Pretending to be busy with putting the rest of his clothes back on, Tyrion attempts not to watch her go behind the curtain and begin to strip off her stinking garments. He can’t see her exactly, which is good, but he can hear her heavy dress hitting the floor, and every now and then, the curtain flutters from her movements. So that he’s acutely aware of her presence. And, through he tries not to, his ears are wide open, so that he notices every little splash of water. 

After some time, while Tyrion sits on the bed and waits patiently and does not think about her, there’s a noise from behind the curtain. “Um… I suppose it wouldn’t do any good to put the dress back on. Ummmm…” Tyrion’s eyes flit over toward her, then back away, his cheeks flaring pink. “Bring me that blanket off the bed. I’ll use that while you’re cleaning it up.” 

Hurriedly, he yanks the large, brown blanket from the bed and carries it over to the thin curtain. “Here you go.” And from between a seam in the cloth, a bare arm pokes out and begins waving around, grasping at open air. Tyrion might have found it comical, if he wasn’t so flustered by the fact that the arm is bare because she is also bare. He clears his throat and leans up to place the blanket in the flailing hand. Then he turns away quickly, cursing the deep blush heating his cheeks. 

It’s ridiculous how just the thought that she’s naked behind there, makes him blush like a maiden of only thirteen. He is the Imp! He’s the lustful god of tits and wine! He’s seen more women naked than he can count, slept with them even, so why- in the name of the Seven- is he feeling greener than a teen boy on a full moon?

Sansa emerges, the blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders, covering her from neck to toe. She nerviously eyes him for a moment, then hurries over to the bed and sits on the edge, turning her back to him. 

“Alright”, says Tyrion, trying to keep his tone light, “Lets have a look now that it’s clean.” Very carefully, she releases some of the fabric to let the blanket slip down her shoulders in the back, exposing the deep scrapes. 

“Oohh”, he lets out an overexaggerated moan when he sees it, and Sansa whips her head to the sight. 

“What!?”

“Hmmm.” Stroking the stubble on his chin, he pretends to take a long moment to consider. “Yes. I think I may need to stitch this up.” 

“No!” Sansa’s voice comes out high-pitched. She frantically cranes her head, trying to see the wound on her back. “No you don’t! It’s not nearly that bad!” 

He can’t hold it back any longer; he snickers. “I know. I just wanted to scare you.” Turning her head, she glares at him over her shoulder, then presents her back to him once again. But the mood seems to have lifted. And thank goodness, because he was beginning to get too over focused on the fact that she’s naked under that blanket. 

Don’t be silly, he chides himself, gathering up a cloth and soaking in medicinal alcohol, she’s naked under her clothes too. But that doesn’t seem to help. 

He tries to touch her as little as possible as he works. Despite his earlier jest, the two have grown quiet and there’s something heavy in the air. Sansa is very still beneath his hands, but, every now and then, shivers a little from the cool air on her bare shoulders. 

The sun is beginning to go down outside the small window, so that the only light he has to work with is that of the dying sun and the light from the bedside lamp and the fire in the hearth. Carefully, he cleans her wound; three long scrapes in her flesh where some kind of spiked weapon had caught her as she fled. Then, following her instructions, spreads a thick, green healing salve over the entire thing, using just his fingers. 

Her skin is incredibly soft, and porcelain white. Light brown freckles speckle the expanse of her bare shoulders like stars. He can’t help admiring her skin as he works, foolishly letting his eyes roam the gentle curve of her shoulder bones poking out, the column of her exquisitely long neck. 

“Astoundingly long.” The words are out before he realized he’s muttered them. 

Sansa goes still beneath his hands. “What…?” She asks softly. 

“Your neck.” He hurries to explain himself, tripping over his words. “You have one… You have a very long neck…” Ugh! Tyrion curses himself. He’d meant it as a complement, but out loud, it sounds rather rude. 

“Uhhh… thank you?” 

“Yes! You’re welcome. It’s a- It’s a very nice neck.” Wow! It takes a great deal to resist smacking himself in the forehead for being such a bonehead! 

But she only laughs, a little strangely; but a laugh all the same. “Alright then.” 

“You’ve got quite a bruise here too.” He says after a few quiet moments. Carefully, he lifts his hand to press the lightest of fingertips to a dark, splotchy bruise, not quite as bad as the one on her leg, on the other side of her back, but lower down. “What happened here?” 

Frowning, the seems confused for a moment. “Oh! As I was running away, one the butt of one of the men’s spears hit me in the back, knocked me flat on my face. That was just before the horses tried to trample me.” 

“I see.” He’s still transfixed on it; how it makes the hollow under her shoulder bone look even deeper. And below it; the top of what looks like an old scar poking out from beneath the blanket. A thin line of puckered flesh, long since healed, travels down her side, curving slightly towards her side and under her ribcage, joined by another matching mark just before disappearing under the brown folds. 

A frown draws his brows into a deep valley as he leans over to stare at them, lips pursing at the type of wound that must have caused them. Maybe some sort of wild animal… Without meaning to, his fingers find their way to the scars, tracing just the very tip of the longest one.

Sansa has noticed his distraction, and when he glances up, he sees her watching him, mutely, from over her shoulder. Guardedly, she regards him. Tyrion licks his lips, moves them; as if to ask where these terrible scars have come from, but she hurriedly turns away, squaring her shoulders and pulling the blanket up; effectively covering them from view. 

Sansa remains silent the entire rest of the time. Clearly, she does not want to talk about it. 

When he’s finished, the wound is already looking better, cleaned and soothed, than is did when he’d first discovered it. Sansa takes a thick strip of cloth back behind the curtain with her, that she will use to wrap around her chest, bandaging the wound. 

“I think I’ll go down and bring us back some dinner, while you’re dressing”, Tyrion calls. “Maybe I’ll be able to scout out exactly where in Westeros we are.” 

“Alright”, is her only response, and she waits until the door has closed behind him, before she comes out. Letting out a long sigh, she throws the blanket back onto the bed and collapses beside it. Its been a long day; and Tyrion noticing her scars is only icing on the cake. 

They were cursed out by an insane woman, and cat-called by a bunch of disgusting ogres; not to mention being hunted by Walder Frey himself. And Winterfell… Winterfell is no longer occupied by the Starks.

Blinking back tears, Sansa presses her hands to either side of her head, wishing she could just block it all out! She does not wish to cry for the second time today. 

Ramsay Bolton has Winterfell. Ramsay Bolton. Ramsay Bolton! As if this man didn’t already invade her dreams and chase her through nightmares; now she has to imagine him in her home, in her parents’ chambers, in Father’s seat in the Great Hall, in her own bedroom, making himself at home. It makes her stomach roll with nausea. How dare he! He stole her home! Well, he will pay dearly for what he has done. The North remembers, and they will never forget, and they will never forgive! 

This bed is comfortable, despite it being old and rickety. Sleep. That’s what she needs now. That, and a warm meal. 

As if on cue, Tyrion opens the door and enters, carrying a wooden tray with two steaming bowls on top. 

They make all haste to set up the chairs beside the small table beside the hearth. Plunking both bowls down opposite from each other, Tyrion produces a wooden spoon for each and they both dig in. It may be one of the most poorly made dishes she’s ever had, but, right now, it’s the most delicious! She’s inhaled almost half the bowl before she even pauses for breath. 

Tyrion is doing the same. She watches as he ladles the mushy brown liquid into his mouth. “Any sign of those men when you were downstairs…” Tyrion puts down his spoon. 

“No. I thought I might have seen one of them just as he was leaving, but I didn’t stop to check.”

“You don’t… You don’t think they’d really try anything tonight, do you?” Now that the initial edge has been taken off her hunger, she’s starting to have concerns about the stew. Avoiding his eyes, she eyes it dubiously, stirring around with her spoon. She’d really like to pretend she isn’t at all worried about those men. But, back in the safety of Winterfell, no one has ever dared speak to her that way; and it’s shaken her more than she’d like to admit. 

“No”, he shakes his head, and waves his spoon dismissively, though he doesn’t see entirely convinced himself. “No. I doubt the owners of this fine establishment would take kindly to a horde of men attacking their guests.” 

“This fine establishment...?” She echoes, her mouth quirking up in a smirk. 

“But”, he continues, “I did manage to get some information from one of the serving girls in the dining hall.” Setting down his spoon again, he takes out a stick of charcoal and one of the strips of bandages they didn’t use, and lays them on the table between them. “This is the Vale”, he explains, carving out a crude shape onto the cloth with the charcoal. “Here’s the Eyrie. King’s Landing is down here, and over here are the Iron Islands. Way up here, is Winterfell. And right in the middle, is the Twins.” He glances up to see that she’s nodding. 

“Now, she told me we are in a small town called Wendish Hill. She said its very near the King’s Road, which, if my memory serves me, stretches along here. That would put us somewhere in this area.” Indicating a place on the map, he draws a little star for their location. “We’re still inside the Vale, but only barely. A little farther north and we’ll either be at the Twins or have reached the southern edge of the Bite bay. So, we know where we are…” Tyrion sets down the charcoal, brushing the black dust from his hands, and leans back in his seat. “We just need to know where we’re going.” 

Sansa doesn’t even hesitate. “North.”

Puffing up his cheeks and letting it out slowly, Tyrion brings his hands up to tug on the hair at the top of his head. He closes his eyes and then rubs them with both palms, leaning his head back, face towards the ceiling. “I knew you were going to say that. But Sansa, be reasonable. The Twins is right at the boarder of the North. The farther we go, the closer we’ll get, and the more likely it is that someone will catch us. We’ll be walking right into Frey’s waiting arms.”

“No. Listen to me! I have a plan.” She casts him an impatient look; as if she isn’t smart enough to know just as well as he does. “Up here, on the opposite side of the Bite,” she takes up the charcoal, “Is a place called Oldcastle. Its ruled by House Locke, one of my father’s most faithful allies.” She sees his dubious look but continues anyway. “I know- I just know- they haven’t turned against us. I’ve been there. We went on hunting parties with the Lockes. They would never betray us!”

“I don’t know where Rob and his army are, but I say, we go to Oldcastle and ask Lord Locke for shelter. I know he’ll say yes. Then, maybe he’ll know about Rob’s whereabouts, and he can send a raven to tell him that I’m safe. And then send me to him.” Tyrion’s been mute throughout her whole proposal, starring thoughtfully at the makeshift map before them, but finally he meets her eyes. “With Walder Frey hunting us, nowhere else is safe. And Oldcastle is much closer than Casterly Rock.” 

Leaning in and resting her arms on the table, Sansa searches Tyrion’s impassive face. “I know we’ll have to go past the Twins, but we’ll be passing right along the edge of the Bite, and there’s a lot of distance between it and the Twins. If we’re careful, he won’t even know we’re there.” 

Tyrion rubs his chin between two fingers, still lost in thought. Sitting back, she waits with bated breath for his decision, fearing the worst. But she’s surprised when he nods. Leaning forward to study the map, continuing to nod, he shoots her a little smile. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

“Really?” 

“Yes. It’s a good plan.” A swell of pride deep in her chest. Well then… That was easier than she’d thought. 

An easy smile spreads across her face and she beams with accomplishment. He smiles at her once more before returning to his stew. But Sansa doesn’t look away. First of all because she’s just noticed how handsome he looks right now, hair coppery and glinting in the firelight, eyes soft. She finds she does not want to take her eyes off him; and so she doesn’t. 

The second reason, of course, is that the memory of that thing that had happened earlier, that she’s been trying to avoid thinking about since it happened, has caught up to her. And, no, its not that she’d seen him half naked only a couple of hours ago- though that has been a recurring image in her mind- but it’s fact that she had kissed him! And he had kissed her back! It had been- nice, more than that… And yes, she did kiss him and not the other way around. She had kissed Tyrion Lannister! Twice! 

Wow. This day just keeps on getting better and better… Just wait until we get into bed. 

Oh, wait… Suddenly she’s choking on her food, coughing and spluttering, while Tyrion casts her a concerned look. “You alright?”

“Yes”, she manages between coughs. He frowns as he observes her leaning over in her seat, red in the face, wheezing into her bowl of stew. When she finally gets her breath back, she clears her throat and shoots him an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”

That wasn’t very ladylike.

Dinner is horrendous, but Sansa couldn’t be more grateful as they carry their dishes over to the wash basin and then return to the bed; because, now that he belly is full, its time for some much-needed sleep. 

At first, they sort of stand there awkwardly, Sansa at the bedside and Tyrion leaning against the fireplace, pretending to warm his hands. Their eyes meet across the room; and there’s a tension there… With great effort, Sansa rips hers away and turns to face the bed. “Well. I suppose it’s time for bed.” 

“Yes”, Tyrion agrees, his voice small in the large room. “It is getting late.” 

A moment of silence. Then she squares her shoulders and reaches for the top of the blanket and begins to turn it down. 

“You know”, Tyrion begins cautiously, behind her, pushing of the fireplace and drawing closer, “I could make myself a bed on the ground somewhere, if that would make you more comfortable.” 

Placing her hands on her hips, she turns to face him and raises a dubious brow. “You really want to sleep on the floor?” 

He’s quiet for a moment, starring down at his shoes, then he peeks up at her, sheepishly, through hooded eyes, and then a small, “…no. I mean, unless you really want me to?” 

Sansa’s smile is all too knowing. She chuckles to herself before turning away. “Uh-huh…” 

Hurrying to join her, Tyrion is quick to defend himself. “Well, at least I offered.” He says while helping her pull back the bedspread. “I had to at least pretend to be a gentleman.” 

Finally, she lets her strict expression lift. “I don’t care about sleeping in a bed with you.” And she has to rush to explain before her cheeks overheat. “We’ve been sleeping under the same blanket for the past two nights. I’m sure I can survive another.” She really needs to get off this topic as quickly as possible, because she's now blushing furiously. “Anyway, I trust you.” When she glances over, he’s gazing at her with quite an awed expression. 

“Sansa…”

“Alright. Alright. Stop making me say it!” Mortified, she climbs into the creaky old bed and lays down on one side, while Tyrion takes the other. 

They lay there, plenty of space between them, silently starring at the ceiling for a few moments. Then she hears him shift in the bed beside her. She can hear the grin on his lips before she turns her head to see it. “I trust you too, Sansa.” He grins one last time, before rolling back over to blow out the lamp. 

…

The hour is very late, and Tyrion is exhausted, be he can’t seem to fall to sleep for some reason. He’s on the verge, feelings the tide beginning to pull him under, when he realizes and then isn’t anymore. 

And he’s not the only one. In the darkness beside him, Sansa Stark’s breaths are uneven and loud in the stillness of night. The past two nights they’d been too cold and tired, but now, he takes notice of her breath so close to his face, how he can feel the heat radiating off her body beneath the covers. Its distracting. Its more than distracting… 

There’s an energy, a heat, that had passed between them that hasn’t been resolved since their lips first touched. Now, its all he can think about. What it was like to kiss her- what it was like to taste her; what might happen, say, if he were to kiss her again. And again, he’s like young boy, who has never been with a woman; his heart hammering in his ears and his blood pulsing hot through his veins. 

“Sansa…” 

“Hmmm.”

“Do you think, maybe… we should talk about it?” He asks, hesitantly. 

“It?”

“IT.” 

A long pause; in which their breaths seem loud enough to wake the dead. “No…”

No? Alright then… 

“Do you want to talk about what we found out today, about Winterfell?”

Another pause. This time her voice is much quieter, and far less convicted. “No…” A beat. “I can’t even think about it.”

“I am sorry, you know. Sorry that this all happened to you.” He wishes he were bold enough to reach out and take her hand beneath the sheets. 

He is not. 

“I know… But Rob, and hopefully Rickon too, is alive, and that’s all that matters right now.”

The silence stretches between them, and Tyrion begins to think she’s finally gone to sleep, before she breakes it once again. “I’m sorry too. That you got dragged into all this.” Tyrion can’t help it; he laughs out loud. 

“Yes. It’s been quite an adventure.” Chuckling to himself, his mind flies over the events of the past few weeks. How long has it been since he left Casterly Rock? More importantly, when was the last time he’s had wine? “And all this just to have my marriage proposal rejected. It could break a poor Imp’s heart.” 

“A poor Imp”, she echoes, amusement turning her words thick and warm. Like the golden syrup they drizzle on the tops of the sweet cakes down in King’s Landing. What he wouldn’t do for one of those cakes… Or- GREAT GODS- a tall glass of Dornish…

“Tyrion.”

“Mm-hmm.” 

He hears her breaths in the darkness, heavy and unsure. “I-.” A pause. He can feel her fingers twisting nervously beneath the blankets. What is it? With a swallow, she forces herself to continue. “I-. Those scars you saw…” His heart quickens at that. “I-.” 

“Its alright, Sansa.” Concern blooms inside him at how shaky her breaths are. Again, he has the urge to take her hand. 

With a long, deep breath, resolve seems to have taken hold. “I’ve already been married before.” 

Complete and utter silence. Tyrion forgets to breathe. 

“I thought your father took you away before you could marry Joffrey.”

“N-not Joffrey.” Tyrion’s mind is whirring with a thousand questions, but he holds his tongue, waiting for her.

“When I was a little girl, I used to dream of a knight in shining armor, of marrying a king who would carry me away to his castle on the shining sea. I lived for those silly stories and fairytales of happily-ever-afters. It was all I ever wanted; to marry a prince and to bring his babies into this world. That was… before I met Joffrey.” 

“Then, after he saved me from vicious brat, my father promised me he would find me someone who was worthy of me; someone brave and gentle and strong. So, I believed him… even when he gave me to Ramsay Bolton.” 

Oh, Sansa. No…

“He didn’t know. None of us knew. How could we? Ramsay is just like Joffrey- good at hiding, good and pretending- only worse. Times were rough; Father needed a strong ally in the North. Winter was coming. He got desperate.”

“I didn’t want to, didn’t want to marry someone I didn’t know. But Ramsay was charming; he was convincing. I thought; how bad could it be? Turns out, pretty bad.” 

Oh, Sansa… He had no idea. And she’s breaking his heart. Her voice is so worn, so detached; its killing him. But still he doesn’t speak. 

“We were married in the Godswood at the Dreadfort, right after Ramsay was named heir to House Bolton. Someone needed to stay behind at Winterfell, so the only ones who came were Father, and Jon-my bastard brother- and some of his banner men. My father gave me away in a gown of pure white and I said my vows under then Weirwood trees. After the feast, Father retired to his room. Late that night, he awoke to the sounds of me screaming and pounding outside his door.” 

Oh, Sansa. 

“I was nervous on my wedding night, uncertain. Ramsay was impatient. He didn’t like to wait. He'd been nice and charming, biding his time until he could get me; and now that he had me, there was nothing holding him back. I didn’t want him; but turns that didn’t matter in the slightest. Before the deed was finished, I managed to escape, and barely made it to my father’s room. But not before he’d managed to give me a parting gift…” 

He voice breaks then. Somehow, he can’t fathom how, her tone has been steady throughout the whole story, as if it had happened to someone else; but now, it finally cracks, revealing hurting frightened girl underneath. 

“Those scars you saw; that’s where I got them. He liked to hurt people. He couldn’t mark my face- never my face- he needed that, for people to see. But it didn’t matter what happened to the rest of me.” 

“We left that very night. There would have been a war, then and there, but we didn’t bring enough men. So, we fled. My father severed all ties with the Boltons. The marriage was easily enough annulled; it wasn’t hard to prove what he’d done to me. After that, we just tried to pretend it never happened. No one was sorrier about it than Father, but he couldn’t undo what had already been done.” 

There are wet tears in his eyes. Then it dons on him. Tyrion hardly dares break the silence, but he whispers in the gentlest of voices, “That’s why you thought it was your fault when your parents were captured.” 

“Yes.” Her reply is little more than a breath. “I know it’s not. But I also know, if we hadn’t left that night, we would still be on good terms with the Boltons.”

“Sansa.” All he wants is to bury his head in her hair, to gather her in his arms and hide her away, far from the world and all who had hurt her. But he fears weather he dare even touch her, after the unspeakable things she’s experienced at the hand of another man. How could someone endure all that? “Its not your fault. That Bolton bastard should have been beheaded on the spot for what he did. Don’t you ever be sorry that you got away from that monster. I know your father never would be.” 

“I know.” Her voice is smaller than a child’s. 

“And, I’m so, so very sorry.” He hears her nodding in the darkness beside him. And turning his head, in the dim light of the moon, he can make out her profile in the blackness, the glisten of a few tears shining on her cheek as she bites her lip to keep them back. 

And finally, he dares… Turning over on his side, hesitantly, he takes her hand in his. Hers is cold; her fingers long and slender beneath his own beefy ones. But he wraps it up even tighter in both of his own, warming it close to his chest. He has never wanted to protect someone he could not protect, more than now. Letting his fear and uncertainty go, he brings her soft white hand to his lips. It doesn’t seem like enough- for all he’s feeling, for all he thinks of her- but softly, he presses a single, long kiss to the delicate flesh of the back of her hand. 

When he looks up, he finds her starring back at him with emotion burning behind her eyes; creasing her brow, gifting him a smile; even through all that pain. “Good night, Lady Stark.” 

“Good night, My Lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a rough week for me. I've been all in my GOT feels ever since the Emmys on Sunday. And of course- Hooray! They won best drama! And congrats to Peter for winning his FOURTH Emmy! I'm not ashamed that I cried when I saw them all up on that stage, and when Peter won. But it was also extremely upsetting that none of the other cast-members won, especially Emelia and Lena who should have won in my opinion.  
> I've also been having trouble getting into the writing mood, so I had to write this chapter in short segments each night, instead of all in a couple nights like usual. That was frustrating because I just wanted to get it out, but sometimes you can't force it. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much for reading and leaving your lovely comments, which I always enjoy. We've got a plan now. All we have to do is not get caught by Walder Frey on our way to Oldcastle. Will they make it? We'll have to see in the next chapter. Stay tuned!


End file.
